


Suffer The Children

by oldenuf2nb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldenuf2nb/pseuds/oldenuf2nb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy has learned via painful experience that the least complicated way to go about things is to not allow himself to care -- about anyone. After all, he'd tried that once without success. But now he finds himself thrust into a situation where maintaining the armour around his heart simply isn't an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suffer The Children

Draco Malfoy loved the feeling of a mouth around his cock. Hot and wet, a skilled tongue swirling over the straining head and flicking along swollen veins, cheeks hollowing as more intense suction was applied. When a knowledgeable hand slipped further between his thighs, curling around his balls and squeezing gently, he slouched lower in the wing back chair and spread his slender legs to provide the competent fingers room to maneuver. He could feel the heat of the fire burning in the fireplace and sense the flickering flames behind his closed eyelids.

Sighing softly, he ran his long fingers through thick, soft hair as his palm curved over the shape of the head between his legs. Stubble from the darkened jaw teased the pads of his fingers as he rubbed them over the square chin, and he reflected with the beginnings of a sweet lassitude that at least this one seemed to know what he was doing. Curling his hand around the man’s nape, he directed the speed of his movements as the pressure in his balls began to build, and with his other hand he reached for the brandy at his elbow and took a slow sip. Heat spread through his mouth, down his throat and into his stomach. He set the crystal snifter back on the table without spilling a drop and licked his lips, reflecting that if he wasn't enraptured, at least he wasn't bored. And much of the time he was precisely that; bored.

A soft buzzing began, just barely discernible over the crackling of the nearby fire, and Draco opened his eyes. The firelight caught in the soft brown waves of hair moving in his lap, outlined the wide shoulders that held his knees apart. He looked to his side and saw the small red light on his mobile flashing, and turned slightly to reach for the phone. When he held it, vibrating in his hand, hazel eyes lifted to his, one brow cocked in inquiry.

“This won’t take a moment,” he said in response to the unasked question. “Carry on.”

Carry on his companion did, and Draco hummed softly in approval, then flipped open the phone.

“This had best be extraordinarily important,” he said smoothly, watching his cock shine wetly in the firelight as the man gripped it, flicking his tongue around the straining head. He smirked into the eyes that lifted to his. “I’m receiving excellent head, and I resent the interruption.” Full lips smiled around his cock, and smoothly engulfed him to the root.

“Do I ever call you when it isn’t ‘extraordinarily important’?” Blaise Zabini asked archly, his voice hard and tinny sounding through the mobile that he insisted Draco carry at all times.

“Occasionally,” Draco sniffed. His companion’s throat closed around his length in a slow swallow, and he sighed softly. “Lovely,” he murmured to the man kneeling at his feet. “Now, what did you want? Because truly, this blow job deserves my undivided attention and you’re killing my buzz.”

“Christ, Draco,” Blaise spat. “If this weren’t so important, I’d say call me back. But it is important.”

Draco picked up his glass of brandy and took another sip. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve had an owl,” Blaise said, pausing meaningfully. “From your father.”

That got Draco’s attention, but the only indication was the pausing of his glass on the way back to the table. He inhaled deeply, and replaced it very carefully.

“This couldn’t wait for another time, Zabini?” Draco asked archly. “There’s nothing I’d rather not discuss while being blown than my father.”

“It couldn’t wait, Draco,” Blaise replied. “This is really quite an extraordinary message.”

“Really,” he drawled, his voice a study in calm. “And what did the old bastard want?”

“He has another client for us.”

Draco allowed his eyes to drift closed even as his lips pulled down at the corners. “I thought we’d decided against taking any more referrals from Father.”

Sensing the sudden distraction of the man whose cock he was fellating, the man between Draco’s thighs redoubled his efforts, increasing his speed and the intensity of his suction. Draco grunted softly and caressed the soft hair that was entirely the wrong color, no matter how skilled the mouth attached.

“I believe that we need to make this one an exception,” Blaise said carefully, and Draco picked up on the sudden note of caution in his voice.

“And why is that, exactly?” The pressure began to build again, and Draco canted his hips up towards the voracious mouth. Taking the hint, wet pressure pulled steadily at the head of his cock and a skilled hand began to stroke his length briskly.

“The client is Maxwell Stavendish.”

Draco’s eyes popped open and he blinked quickly, but even with that startling announcement his body was ahead of his brain. “One moment, Blaise, if you please,” he said politely, then turned the phone towards his chest. With a slight shudder and a slow exhalation, Draco felt his orgasm roll through him, pleasant but not earth shaking, enough to take the edge off but little more than that.

The man released his cock with a soft ‘pop’ and looked up at Draco, wiping at the corner of his mouth with his fingers. He was decent looking enough, Draco supposed; very English, with curling soft brown hair and just barely greenish eyes, broad shoulders and a nicely sculpted chest. But the face was wrong, and now that he was done with him, Draco couldn’t be bothered to care.

“Very nice,” he said dismissively. “Your money is on the mantelpiece. I believe that you can let yourself out.”

Confusion washed over the handsome features, but the young man didn’t speak; merely nodded and pulled his jumper back on before gaining his feet and going to collect his fee. Draco was glad that he didn’t speak; the last thing he wanted in that moment was chit chat with a whore. He paused at the doorway and shot Draco one last, lingering look that held a trace of wistfulness, then walked from the room. Draco listened as footsteps receded down the long hallway that led to his flat’s entryway, heard the door open and close softly. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and cast the locking spells from where he sat, reset his wards, and then brought the phone back to his mouth.

“Stavendish,” he said flatly, casting a wordless cleansing spell. “Maxwell Stavendish.”

“That’s what I said,” Blaise said in exasperation. “And you have got to be one of the most cold-blooded bastards I’ve ever encountered in my life. You can sit there and come, for God’s sake, pay the whore and bid him goodnight, and come back to me without even being out of breath. It’s unnatural.”

“It’s called multi-tasking,” Draco said dryly, propping the phone between his shoulder and ear and closing his trousers. “It’s not my fault that your brain shuts down when your cock is engaged. My capacity to maintain concentration has made you fairly wealthy, so stop whining. Not everyone has to thrash and groan when they get off.” The last was said dryly, but in truth Draco couldn’t remember the last time an orgasm had even made his heart rate increase marginally. He could remember the first time it had, but that didn't bear thinking about; not anymore. 

Mouth tightening, he yanked his cashmere jumper down over the waistband of his wool slacks and shifted the phone to his other ear.

“You probably didn’t even sweat,” Blaise was grumbling. “Do you even enjoy it?”

“Of course, I enjoy it. And that’s enough of your unnatural fascination with my sex life. What did the note from Father say, exactly.”

Blaise sighed. “Just that Mr. Stavendish had approached him at the Ministry today, and that he was dining tonight at the manor. And that Lucius thought that it would be in our interests if you dropped by.” There was a pause. “Are you ever going to explain to me why these bloody owls from the Manor can’t just go to you?”

“No.”

Draco pushed up from the armchair and checked his hair in the mirror that was hanging above the mantle. It was impeccable, of course, every white blond strand neatly in place. There was a slight flush across his high cheekbones, but he knew it would fade momentarily and his face looked smooth and composed, his eyes calm. Yes, he could face his father, once he was appropriately girded for the experience. He strode to a concealed closet in the wall and pressed the paneling, standing back as it slid silently open.

“You know what this is about,” Draco continued into the phone. A light began to glow in the secreted closet, showing an array of formal robes hanging neatly from a brass rod. He studied them dispassionately, and then with a slight smirk selected a set fashioned of black velvet with silver snake-head clasps. He doubted the irony would be lost on his father. He slipped into them, carefully closing the elaborate fasteners down the front.

“I’ve a fair idea, yes,” Blaise replied. 

“Would you like for me to pop over after I’ve met with the man, or are you otherwise occupied this evening?” Draco pressed the paneling, and it slid back into place.

“No, I’m home. And I’ll want to know the details.” Blaise paused. “You know the old man is richer than Midas.”

“Yes,” Draco retorted drily. “And utterly mad.” Blaise snorted.

“Has that ever mattered to us before?”

Draco scowled. “Regrettably, no. I’ll see you later.”

He snapped the phone closed and dropped it into a deep pocket in the robe, then took a handful of floo powder from an alabaster urn on the mantelpiece. He paused, centering himself and gathering his carefully constructed calm around him, and then sprinkled the powder over the fire and watched as it flared bright green. “My father's fucking Manor,” he said darkly, then stepped into the flames.

 

~***~

 

He chose not to come to his ancestral home often, and when he stepped out of the floo into his mother’s overly-decorated and yet still somehow sterile sitting room, he was reminded why. It was a beautiful room, very feminine in tones of cream and soft rose with touches of celladon green, cherry wood Queen Anne style furniture polished to an unnatural gleam and every throw pillow perfectly in place. But for all of its elegance and perfection, it was cold. Uninhabited by humans. A museum piece lauding the luxury of another time, another era when perception was all that mattered and reality was rigorously ignored. In fact, the whole of the Manor seemed caught in just such an altered reality, and the moment Draco had been old enough and self-sufficient enough he’d escaped. 

His own tasteful, more modern flat was on the small side and completely without the Manor’s elegance, but it suited his purposes. It had taken him several years once the war was over to make the break cleanly, but he’d finally managed. Now, he only saw his parents when he chose, or when he’d been summoned. A muscle in his jaw flexed at the thought.

“Hello, darling.”

He’d not seen his mother sitting in the corner in a painfully prim and uncomfortable looking side chair; she fit perfectly in the overly feminine room in her rose silk robes, her hair caught up in an immaculate French twist, her lovely face so composed as to be without expression. He stopped and blinked, unaccustomed to being caught unprepared. Swallowing a sudden dryness in his throat, he approached her.

Narcissa Malfoy had always been a beautiful woman. In fact, the Malfoy’s were known for their icy, cool blond beauty; the fact that Narcissa had actually once been a Black was widely disregarded. With her looks, the union between her and the wealthy Malfoy heir had seemed pre-ordained. No one had been surprised when they’d produced a beautiful blond son. They seemed the perfect pure-blood family; wealthy, respected, influential. Then the war had come, and the Malfoy patriarch had picked the wrong side. It was a miscalculation that the elder Malfoy was still attempting to recover from.

It was only through Lucius’s vast cunning that they’d survived with the family fortune intact. They’d managed, through artfully placed bribes, to keep the house and the holdings, and for the most part, he’d been able to purchase back their place in society. It was astounding what people were willing to forget for the right price, just as it was amazing what they were willing to ignore. Draco had built his own not inconsiderable fortune on the willful blindness of the authorities where people with money were concerned; he wasn’t hypocrite enough to decry the flaw in the system.

Draco crossed to his mother and took the hand she offered him, bowing over it before placing a kiss on the back. It was cold, and the skin beneath his lips felt thin, the tracing of blue veins showing through. When she caught onto Draco’s hand, he lifted his eyes to ones very like his own.

“You look...” She lifted the other bloodless hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. It was cold as well, and Draco felt a shiver slip down his spine. “Well, you’re quite magnificent, aren’t you?”

“I try.” Her smile morphed into something that resembled his smirk, and Draco responded in kind. “You’re looking lovely as ever.” It was true, he reflected, if you ignored the brittle quality of her smile, and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

“I’m aging dreadfully,” she said, her voice flippant. “My mother was stunning into her eighties. Clearly, father’s genes were inferior. But,” she sighed extravagantly, “one does what one must to preserve one’s dignity. And I’ve always been proficient with a pot of rouge.” He nodded and straightened, releasing her hand with relief. The feel of it within his had chilled him.

There had been a time when Draco and his mother had been more than close, but as Draco had grown and become more independent, and as his differences with his father had escalated into open warfare, the confidences he and his mother shared ended. Draco knew that his father hated the sight of him; the night he'd attempted to take a cane to Draco after he'd found him in bed with Theo Nott had been proof enough of that. His refusal to marry and provide an heir in spite of his orientation had been the final breaking point, and she had sided with Lucius. There had been little to say after that. 

He'd moved out just after his twentieth birthday. It had been rough going in the beginning; he'd apprenticed with an apothecary and drew a grudgingly provided allowance, but then he’d gone into business with Blaise and was no longer dependent on his father’s largesse. It was something he knew the elder Malfoy resented intensely; he liked to control his family, thinking that by providing the small living stipend he still had the capacity to make Draco do what he wanted. But Draco simply refused to be managed.

He did not hear his father enter the room behind him.

“Narcissa, I believe I instructed that I was to be notified the very moment Draco arrived.” The cool voice raised the hairs on Draco’s nape. He turned, expression carefully composed.

“I've just this moment done so, Father,” Draco said smoothly, straightening to his full height. He knew it irritated the elder Malfoy that Draco was taller than he by at least four inches. “She’s barely had time to say hello.”

Lucius’s cool grey eyes traveled over Draco's impeccable form. The absolute lack of warmth in them would have frightened Draco at one time; it didn’t any longer.

Lucius Malfoy was still every inch the elegant, wealthy scion of an ancient family. His muscular, compact body was swathed in black velvet not unlike the robe Draco wore, and his long white blond hair was pulled back to his nape in a neat tail.

“You certainly took your time getting here,” he said, voice clipped, lip curled. “I sent the owl summoning you nearly two hours ago.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Draco retorted dryly, “I no longer respond to ‘summoning’. Besides --,” he shrugged negligently, “-- I was otherwise occupied. And it would have been unconscionably rude to abandon my… companion at such a moment.” He smirked, and enjoyed the rusty stain that spread up from his father’s stiff white collar.

“You will come when I call you,” Lucius snarled. Draco stiffened.

“I will come if and when it suits me,” he shot back. “I am no longer dependent on your generosity, nor do I have to be here. I would suggest you remember that I’m only willing to speak to this ‘friend’ of yours as a favor.”

Now Lucius smirked, even though his anger was thinly veiled. “You are willing to speak to Maxwell Stavendish because you are little better than a whore, working in ‘trade’.” He spat the word as if it were an obscenity. “And he’s a very wealthy man.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Trust me, Father,” he said evenly. “Were I merely a whore, there wouldn’t be enough money in the world for me to grab my ankles for Maxwell Stavendish. And my ‘trade’, as you so eloquently put it,” he went on, unfazed when his father’s eyes narrowed, “is the only reason he’s even remotely interested in speaking to you. I’ve seen the Prophet,” Draco said dryly. “I know why I’m here.”

Both of the Malfoy men startled when the sound of clapping cut through the tension in the room. They turned, and framed in the doorway was a much older man seated in a wheelchair. He was ugly; there was no kinder word for it. He had a large, bullish head and thinning white hair that hung lankly to his shoulders. His eyes were red-rimmed and rheumy, his nose large and misshapen, and his mouth pulled down unnaturally on one side. Behind him stood another man, tall, square, his face a carefully blank mask but the shape of his head, and the angle of his large nose, were exactly the same as the man in the chair. There was no mistaking their relationship.

“My, my, young Malfoy,” the old man wheezed, his eyes on Draco. The unblinking regard made Draco’s skin crawl. “You do speak your opinion in an emphatic manner, don’t you? It seems the young colt has slipped his harness, Lucius,” he went on, his eyes swerving to Draco’s father. 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, not in the least intimidated by Stavendish, or the fury that seemed to be rolling off of his father in waves. 

“You’ll forgive me if I find the whole ‘thoroughbred husbandry’ line of dialogue just a bit clichéd,” Draco said, his distaste obvious. “We all know that’s just your charming way of referring to our ‘pure-blood’ status, and that your own son is quite firmly still wearing the bit.” A dark red stain spread up the face of the man behind the old man’s chair colored, and his eyes glittered malevolently at Draco. The man made his skin crawl. “We also know that the only reason I’m here –,” he went on, “ -- is that you’re in need of services that only I can provide, so why don’t we cut through the excrement and get down to business?”

“Draco, we do not discuss business in the presence of your mother,” Lucius hissed, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“It’s all right,” Narcissa said mildly, rising to her feet. “I’ll just go on to my rooms. I’m feeling a bit fatigued. It was lovely to see you, darling,” she said coming to Draco. She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his face, and he bent to accept her kiss to his cheek. He inhaled deeply, swamped by the familiar scent of her perfume and allowed himself for a moment to yearn for the closeness they'd once shared. But when she straightened, her expression was indifferent. She went to Lucius and he brushed a kiss to her cheek, and she gave him a look of such adoration that it made Draco feel completely excluded. She nodded politely to the other men before leaving the room.

“A lovely woman, your wife,” the old man wheezed, his eyes following Narcissa as she walked down the long corridor. “So beautiful and shapely, even into her middle years. And so charmingly biddable and obedient. You can certainly see her breeding.”

Draco’s had to fight to keep his lip from curling. “As we all know that your wife was apparently neither biddable nor obedient,” he said dryly, “are we now to question her breeding? Or your judgment?”

“Draco!” Lucius hissed, his face flushed, but the old man merely laughed again.

He eyed Draco with appraisal. “I like your spirit, young Malfoy. And if you are as good at what you do as I’ve been told that you are…”

“I am.” Draco’s voice was flat, without bravado. The amusement on the old face intensified.

“Then, we have business to discuss.” He looked up over his shoulder. “By the fire, Milos,” he ordered flatly, and his son obeyed without expression. He gestured to the chair that his mother had vacated, ignoring Lucius, and Draco sat. “Lucius,” the old man wheezed, his eyes never leaving Draco’s, “why don’t you arrange for some refreshments while your son and I… chat.”

The telltale flex of muscle in his father’s jaw before he turned and left the room in a swirl of black velvet was witnessed from the corner of Draco’s eye; he’d never trust Maxwell Stavendish enough to turn his back on him.

 

~***~

 

“So? What did he say?”

Draco had just stepped from the floo into Blaise's drawing room, and he paused to brush a nearly invisible smudge of soot from the front of his black robes. He'd been traveling by floo long enough that he'd become very proficient with soot repelling charms.

“Why did he want to see you?” Blaise went on, rising from his seat and coming forward anxiously. Draco finally raised his head and fixed him with a pointed look. Blaise was wearing a claret velvet smoking jacket and dark trousers, and was as beautiful as he'd always been, the self-important snob. Draco scowled.

“For precisely the reason we'd assumed,” he answered. “And if you were any sort of gentleman, you'd offer me a bloody drink.”

“Briny!” Blaise called. A tiny house-elf wearing a pale blue toga popped into existence at his side, bat-like ears quivering and bright apple green eyes wide. “I'll have a firewhiskey and Mr. Malfoy will have a...?”

“Brandy,” he answered dismissively. “Warmed.” The elf nodded respectfully and disappeared. 

“So, how was it?” Blaise said, gesturing to a nearby chair. Draco crossed to it and lowered himself into it, his lips curling in revulsion.

“You mean, utterly aside from leaving me with a pressing desire to bathe?”

Blaise snorted and lowered himself gracefully into the seat across from him. “That bad, eh?”

Draco shuddered. “Truly, the man is a horror. He's disfigured and grotesque, but that's not the worst of it. There's nothing in his eyes; no warmth, no soul.” He shook his head. “It's like he's being kept alive with charms and potions, and the only thing driving him is hatred and the desire for revenge.”

“My, my.” Blaise smirked. “Do listen to Draco Malfoy waxing poetic.”

“Oh, get stuffed,” Draco mumbled.

Briny returned with a tray and offered each of the men a steaming snifter of liquor before once again disappearing. Draco took a sip, and sighed as the fine warm liquor slid down his throat and began to settle his unsteady stomach. Truly, his conversation with Stavendish had left him feeling both shaken and nauseated.

“So,” Blaise said after allowing Draco another sip of his drink, rolling his glass between his palms. “You are going to apprise me of the particulars, aren't you?”

Draco set his glass carefully on the end table at his side. “Stavendish, the old ghoul,” he answered, linking his long fingers in his lap, “is desirous of acquiring our services after the glowing report he received from his very good and dear friend, Antioch Sebastian.” He scowled. “And isn't that a reference of which we can be justifiably proud.”

“Sebastian paid us very well, Draco,” Blaise pointed out. “We did an honest job for him, doing precisely what he'd hired us to do.” Blaise's voice softened. “What happened consequently has nothing to do with us.”

Draco's eyes lifted to Blaise's face. “Is that what you tell yourself to help you sleep nights, Blaise? Because I've come across little that will help me save getting half blind, or taking a dreamless sleep potion.”

Blaise eyed him dispassionately. “You took that one too personally,” he said, his voice as flat as his eyes. “He hired us to perform a service, which we did. End of story.”

Draco stared at him, wondering when Blaise had lost his capacity to feel guilt. He supposed it was about the time that Draco had discovered that he did, in contrast to the opinion of many, have a conscience. And he could trace its inconvenient appearance to the aftermath of their hiring by Antioch Mathias Sebastian.

Going into the private investigation business with Blaise had seemed like a lark when his old school chum had first approached Draco with it. His position as a potion's masters apprentice hadn't been particularly satisfying, and it had barely kept a roof over his head and food on his table. And it was true that he and Blaise had very little trouble ferreting out the latest gossip in the wizarding world, which was half of the battle to begin with. Skeeter was only too happy to tell him everything she knew for the price of a glass of sherry and a stroke to her ego, and Pansy knew most of the dirt that Skeeter didn't. Draco agreed to try making money at it on a temporary basis, and he told Blaise if they proved to be successful, he'd consider quitting his other job. 

Their first cases had been minor; a witch who had hired them to tail her philandering husband, and a small time accountant who was accused of embezzlement. Those had been easy, and they'd refined their technique as they'd gone along. Blaise handled the client contacts and Draco, being better at stealth and tracking, worked in the field. Word of mouth had sent them more clients with unfaithful spouses and a rather well-publicized missing person. They'd done well, solving ninety percent of their cases; so well that they'd come under the notice of Antioch Sebastian, who contacted his 'old friend' Lucius Malfoy, who in turn had contacted his son. He hired them to find his runaway wife, a woman a fraction of his age, and his five-year-old son. And he'd offered them a hundred and fifty thousand galleons to do it.

From the very beginning, Draco had felt uneasy about the whole thing. Completely discounting his father's involvement, it was an obscene amount of money for a missing person case. And there were rumors within the magical community that the boy was a Squib, something that an old pure-blood family like the Sebastian's would see as a disgrace. Draco had grown up knowing families that were rumored to have produced Squibs, and it certainly wasn't something discussed in polite society. The children simply weren't spoken of at all, and he'd never given much thought to what happened to them. The idea that someone would pay such an exorbitant sum for the return of one, even if his mother were included in the deal, seemed somehow sinister.

And then Draco had seen the photo of Seraphina Timmons-Sebastian. Even a man disinclined to sleep with women could certainly see her appeal; the twenty-five year old had lovely strawberry blonde hair surrounding her heart-shaped face, translucent ivory skin and wide blue eyes, and she was slender and shapely. Totally aside from the fact that the idea of such a lovely woman sleeping with her elderly husband had made Draco's skin crawl, he could see why he wanted her back. And why she wouldn't want to go.

It had been a difficult case; they'd spent four months searching before they'd unearthed a single clue. But finally, through a connection at the new Victims of Domestic Abuse Division within the Protective Services Department of the Ministry of Magic, they'd learned that Sera Sebastian and her son Blake were in a 'safe-house' in Dorset, and she had managed to find someone willing to take them out of the country.

Draco had never heard of the Victims of Domestic Abuse Division before. In the wizarding world, just as it was with Squibs, such things had never been spoken of. But then the second war had come and gone, and there were any number of new things that had sprung into being, most of which he could trace to the rapid rise of Hermione Granger through the ranks in the prosecutor's office at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not content to deal with the laws as they were, she'd proposed a new Magical Creatures Rights Division, laws designed to protect dragons, centaurs and house-elves, and her personal crusade, laws written to protect the wives and children of wizards from all forms of domestic abuse. 

It had not been an easy sell for Solicitor Granger; even with her impressive credentials and her close acquaintance with 'the golden boy', the old guard within the Wizengamot had fought her at nearly every turn. Wizards, they argued, took care of their own business; they didn't need laws to protect wives and children from their husbands and fathers. Initially, Draco agreed with them; everyone knew of at least one wizard that was a bully, but it was handled privately, by the extended family, not in a court of law. But Granger had felt she knew better, and in retrospect, Draco could only think that maybe the insufferable know-it-all had been on to something.

Unhappy with the slow pace of change, Granger had gone outside of the Ministry and developed something she referred to as 'an underground railroad' for women and their children to escape from abusive men. The house where Sera and Blake were being hidden was a part of series of homes throughout the countryside used to hide them until they could leave England. That was the tip Draco and Blaise had gotten from a paid informant inside the DMLE. They passed the information along to Antioch Sebastian and his hired goons and collected half of their fee, the balance to be paid when the woman and child were recovered.

Draco had never been so glad to wash his hands of anything. The old man had been demanding and obnoxious, sending his thugs around at all hours for updates, and the whole thing had left a bad taste in his mouth. He hadn't even cared if they ever received the remaining seventy five thousand galleons; he just wanted to be done with it. 

And then the headline appeared in the Daily Prophet; the lifeless body of Seraphine Timmons-Sebastion was found floating in the Thames, her throat cut from ear to ear. The child was reportedly still missing, and it was believed that he had also met with foul-play. The entire thing was written up as a cautionary tale to wives who might abandon their husbands, warning that they could fall in with the wrong sort and end up dead. 

Draco had been horrified, then sickened when the remaining balance had been delivered to Blaise in an armored chest, along with a note that read; Payment for a job well done. I know I don't have to tell you what might occur should you reveal your participation in this. Antioch Sebastian.

Draco hadn't slept for a week. He kept having visions of Blake Sebastian's round, cherubic face, swollen and lifeless as the child floated out to sea. He could only think that by revealing the mother's hiding place, he and Blaise had cost both of them their lives. Blaise disagreed, of course. “We didn't kill them,” he argued, and the amount of money involved had overcome any scruples his old friend might have had. Pragmatic to the end, Blaise had banked the fee and moved on to the next case.

For Draco, it had been harder than that. Much harder.

But then, Blaise hadn't lost what Draco had because of the Sebastian case, either. Draco had never been sure it was the cause, but every instinct he had told him that his involvement with Sera's murder and the disappearance of her son had taken from him the one thing that had truly mattered to him.

When he'd gone home the night the headline had appeared in the Prophet and found all evidence that he hadn't lived alone gone and the flat quiet and dark, he'd known it was over. Even the toothbrush that had been next to his in the glass in the loo was gone, and all of the dark hair that he was forever complaining about on the white Egyptian cotton pillowcases had disappeared. He hadn't had to look in the closet to know that the few items of clothing that had been left there over the preceding months were gone.

The worst of it was that he couldn't talk about it; not with Blaise, not with Pansy, not with anyone. That had been the agreement from the start; for both of their sakes their arrangement, for it couldn't be called a relationship, had to remain a secret. He'd had to carry on as if nothing had happened, as if his heart hadn't been ripped out of his chest. To acknowledge the pain and the loss to anyone would be to acknowledge that he'd cared to begin with, and that was unthinkable. Malfoys simply did not allow themselves to care; not and risk the possibility that they might be more invested than the other party involved.

As he'd done in the face of painful events for most of his life, he'd put one foot in front of the other, relying on sleeping potions at night and pepper up potions to get him through the days, and shut down his emotions. He did it so effectively, in fact, that he'd cared about very little ever since. His only requirement from his business partner was that if forced to deal with his father and his 'referrals' ever again, they'd go through Blaise first, and that Draco always had last right of refusal. 

And he wanted to refuse Maxwell Stavendish; so much that his jaw ached with holding back a loud and emphatic 'no'. But he didn't see how he could refuse, not when he considered Stavendish's agreed-to fee.

“So,” Blaise said, startling Draco into the realization that he'd drifted into preoccupied silence. “Putting aside ancient history, I suppose that Stavendish wants to hire us to find his wife and son?”

The headline about the disappearance of Desiree Stavendish and her three-year-old, Brighton, had appeared in the Prophet the week before, and just reading it had made Draco feel nauseous. 

“Yes,” Draco replied, his lips twisted. “As we'd known from the moment you got the owl.”

“You have last right of refusal,” Blaise said carefully.

Draco grimaced. “I know,” he said. “But I really don't see how I can.”

“And why is that?”

“When the old bastard told me what he wanted and asked how much it would cost, I threw out the most outrageous amount I could think of. I never for one moment thought he'd agree.”

“But, he did,” Blaise said, dark eyes beginning to glow.

“He did,” Draco said with a tired nod. 

“How outrageous are we talking, here?”

Draco shot him a wry look, hesitating for a moment. 

“Half a million galleons,” he answered finally, and for the first time in their acquaintance, it seemed that Draco had rendered Blaise speechless. Blaise stared at him, his mouth agape, his face a mask of astonishment.

“You're joking,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

“I wish I were,” Draco said. “Then we could tell him to piss off. But for half a million galleons...” He wasn't someone who found wealth a necessity, but as a matter of course he found that now it was the only thing by which his value could be measured. It was cold comfort, but it was better than nothing.

“Tell me we're going to do this,” Blaise said fervently. “Please tell me you agreed and that we're going to do this.”

Draco looked at him, feeling faintly sickened by what he was about to say. “I agreed. We're going to do this.”

Blaise whooped, his handsome face lighting up with pleasure. “I honestly could almost kiss you right now,” he gushed, rubbing his hands together. Draco rolled his eyes.

“I'm scarcely your type, old man,” he drawled. “I've a cock and you like girly bits, remember?”

“Still,” Blaise said, chestnut brown eyes shining. “I'm more tempted than you know.” He reached to a table sitting beside his chair and pulled a slender leather notebook into his lap, flipping it open. “All right, where do we begin?”

Draco pondered for a moment. “Where else?” he said finally, one brow arching. The stared into each others eyes before speaking in unison.

“Granger.”

~***~

 

Draco moved along Diagon Alley, careful not to bump into anyone but unafraid, for the moment at least, that he'd be subjected to what he'd come to think of as the unavoidable side-effect of being his father's son. Malfoys were not popular; it wasn't a recent sentiment, but since the end of the war it had become more pronounced. He was extremely grateful, therefore, that George Weasley was so very clever.

When it had come to the public's attention via Granger's autobiographical post war memoir fittingly titled Horcruxes and Hallows: How Harry Potter Defeated Lord Voldemort that the Deathly Hallows were real, it had first inspired fear. After all, possession of all three of the Hallows was said to make a wizard master of death. No one man, many said, should have such power, not even 'the golden boy'. It was only after Potter released a statement saying he was no longer in possession of the Elder Wand or the Resurrection Stone had the furor died down. But he still had his invisibility cloak, and because of his closeness with the Weasley family, George Weasley had the opportunity to study it first hand.

It was impossible to replicate the cloak's properties completely, but the remaining Weasley twin was a very, very bright man. He'd managed through trial and error to create an excellent working copy of Potter's cloak. The fabric was heavier and a well placed revealing charm rendered it transparent, but a person could go about in complete anonymity as long as they were careful.

Of course the Ministry had immediately demanded that the cloaks be registered; god forbid some disgruntled ex-Death Eater get his hands on one. And the powers that be were very careful who they allowed ownership. The price was prohibitive; twenty five thousand galleons for the cloak plus another thousand for a license to own one was a lot of gold, no matter who you were. But the Ministry scarcely batted an eye when Blaise Zabini, who had no nasty war-time allegiances to be overcome and who could certainly afford it, registered to purchase one. In turn, Mr. Zabini didn't feel the need to inform the Ministry that he planned to immediately hand it over to his business partner to assist in his reconnaissance work. Draco was the leg man, after all; he did all of the stealth work, all of the tracking, spying and photography. For the most part Blaise handled the business end of the business; the tediousness of the paperwork would have driven Draco spare, and he much preferred being active, tailing their subjects. Being invisible was a huge bonus.

Over the course of the last few months, the cloak had proved invaluable more than once. But never so much as when he was about to head directly into the heart of the DMLE. He'd been inside of the Ministry before under the cloak, but it had been at night; not in the middle of the morning when the halls would be bustling with activity. His palms were damp as he passed Gringotts and entered through the rear of the Leaky Cauldron, heading towards the door that led out into Muggle London. The Ministry entrances were still off of a deserted Alley behind some vacated old store fronts. Fortunately, at least as far as Draco was concerned, one no longer had to flush themselves into the main Atrium. After the war, it was widely agreed that while a Death Eater controlled Ministry might be appropriately accessed that way, it really was pretty undignified. Wizards now entered between two industrial garbage bins through an empty department store's service door. It was only during the summer months that the reek of long gone garbage turned the alley into a noxious corridor, most easily accessed with a handkerchief over one's nose. Rumor had it that the upper echelon was searching for another possible entrance, but Draco wasn't holding his breath. (No pun intended.)

He accessed the Atrium easily enough by following two older wizards through the door who were so busy discussing the latest Quidditch scores that they didn't notice that the door stayed open slightly longer than normal behind them. Once in the cavernous Atrium, it was easy enough to stay close to the walls and out of the flow of traffic. Making his way to the back of a lift was trickier, but he was lucky; there was only one witch waiting for the lift furthest down the line, and she was so engrossed in a copy of the Daily Prophet that he was able to skirt around her and cling to a corner. As the lift jerked into motion, Draco clutched at the brass rail at his back and stiffened his knees.

The witch reached up to grasp a strap without lifting her eyes from the paper, but it shifted enough that Draco could see the front, and the image there caught his eye. It was a moving picture of a handsome, unsmiling young man with a messy thatch of black hair, his large eyes solemn behind the round lenses of his glasses. Boy Who Lived Now Missing For Five Years the headline above the sober photograph read. Many fear him dead. Ministry refuses comment, smaller print beneath added. Draco stared at the achingly familiar face, with it's square jaw, straight nose and arched black brows. The famous scar was hidden under a fringe that seemed to fall over it naturally, but Draco knew better. He clearly remembered fingers reaching up with every appearance of casualness, only to yank that bit of fringe down in an attempt to hide the distinctive lightning bolt shaped flaw. The git had honestly thought that covering the scar would render him unrecognizable, Draco thought sourly. As if having once looked into them anyone could forget those eyes; wide, thickly lashed, beautiful but haunted. Draco tore his gaze away from the face and looked resolutely at the descending numbers next to the doors as they lit, forcing himself to ignore the ache at the base of his throat that for a moment made it difficult to swallow.

The witch got off on the first subterranean level, leaving a relieved Draco to ride down the remaining five to the Offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Division for the Protection of Victims of Domestic Abuse alone. When the lift doors opened onto the black tiled hallway that led to the courtrooms in one direction and the departmental offices in the other, Draco hesitated, leaning forward to make sure that he could exit without accidentally running into anyone. There were witches and wizards in the pewter gray robes of the DMLE moving through the halls, but no one was close enough for him to risk discovery by stepping out of the lift. He made his way down the hall undetected, but then had to press himself in a corner opposite the door marked Hermione Granger-Weasley, Head of the Department for the Protection of Witches and Children and hope she was inside, then wait for someone to come along and open the door. Doors that opened by themselves were still cause for notice, even in the Magical world, and so all he could do was bide his time.

As it turned out, Granger wasn't in her office. He heard her voice before he saw her, and he stiffened unconsciously. There was just something about her; there always had been. If Potter had made him furious during their school years with what Draco thought at the time was undeserved adulation, Granger had intimidated the hell out of him with her intelligence. That in turn made him angry; he'd always been the smartest wizard of his age and he wasn't graceful at sharing the distinction with anyone, let alone someone whose bloodlines he'd been raised to despise. He'd never been at his best when his emotions were engaged, and during his adolescence he'd had little or no control over them. Draco gained some dominance over that as he aged, but still the sound of her voice, sharp and efficient, made the muscles in his back tighten. 

She came into view, curly hair tortured back into a tight French twist, pewter robes immaculate. She'd grown into her looks, Draco could reflect dispassionately; all buck teeth and hideous hair throughout their school years, now she was a lovely woman with high cheekbones, lovely peach coloring and cinnamon brown eyes that were quick with towering intelligence.

“I'll need that report by four, Bernice,” she was saying to a younger witch who followed her, wearing the black robes relegated to the interns who worked within the Ministry. The younger woman nodded then looked up at Granger with something very like hero-worship in her light eyes.

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley,” she said. “Will I need to copy the Minister with this?”

“Not until I've read it,” Granger corrected mildly, and the intern blushed. “But once I've approved it, yes. To both the Minister and the Chief Auror.”

Who was her husband, Draco thought with a wry grimace. A position he'd never have held if Potter hadn't... Draco pushed the thought away with an inner shudder. He couldn't go there, not today. Today he had things to do, and if he wasn't mistaken, he was about to have his opportunity. He pushed away from the wall, rubbing his damp palms against his robes beneath the invisibility cloak as Granger reached for her doorknob. 

“Bring that to me the moment you've finished,” she said briskly. “I'll have the latest information from Bath,” she added, her voice intentionally softened, giving the intern a meaningful look. The assistant nodded quickly, her eyes very wide, before turning and continuing down the hall. Granger watched her go, then sighed and opened her office door.

Draco moved as quickly and as silently as he could, stepping as close to her back as he dared while not touching her, then slipping through the doorway as she entered her office. He thought he'd been quick enough, but the door bumped him in the bum with a soft thud, and he stepped to the side and pinned himself against the wall, certain that the sound, soft as it was, would still alert someone as smart as Granger. And for a second, it looked as if it had; she stiffened minutely, her head angling to the side. But then she continued to her desk across the room and seated herself gracefully, and Draco allowed himself a slow, silent exhalation of relief.

Granger's office was huge, much larger than others Draco had snuck into on this floor, and tastefully decorated. Unlike other Departmental Heads who made do with hideous Ministry ordered monstrosities of metal painted black, Granger's desk was a large, elegant Queen Anne roll top of warmest cherry. There were pictures of her ginger children and husband in frames in the corner, and Draco rolled his eyes. The brats might be bright if they'd inherited their mother's mind, but they'd always be forced to deal with their idiot father's hair. One look at them and no doubt the sorting hat would be shouting 'Gryffindor' at the top of it's voice. 

Draco forced his eyes away from the photos and glanced around quickly. The carpeting on the floor surprised him; it was hunter green, but then if Granger was forever spouting off about how people should move past their preoccupations with their school houses, having red would be somewhat counterproductive. There were several bucolic, insipid paintings on the walls that left him underwhelmed. There was also a large charmed window that showed a wide pasture bordered by a thick growth of trees, and let in lots of very convincing morning sunlight. Draco had never been overly fond of the 'picture windows' himself. They always looked fake, although even he had to admit this was a very good one.

He glanced back at Granger, who had settled a pair of reading glasses on the tip of her upturned nose and was perusing a report. Taking a couple of cautious steps forward, even though his shoes had a silencing charm on them, Draco craned his neck to read as much as he could. After a moment, he relaxed back; it was merely a monthly budget for some minor committee. He sighed silently, wondering how long he'd have to be there.

It was rather a long time, as it turned out. So long that Draco had retreated back to the wall next to the office door and was now leaning against it, forcing himself not to yawn. Granger's job was boring as all hell, he'd finally concluded. She seemed fascinated by every document she picked up, but if he had to sit behind a desk going over budgets and invoices every day, he'd have run mad in no time. He was about to give it up as a waste of time, his feet aching from standing for so long, when he heard a soft buzzing come from Granger's desk.

Draco straightened as she pulled a key on a chain from around her neck from where it was secreted within her heavy robes, lifted it over her head, and unlocked the second drawer from the bottom. She opened it and withdrew a mobile, flipped it open and held it to her ear. 

“Yes,” she said, her voice very soft. She paused to listen. “Oh, good,” she went on, sounding relieved. “I've been so worried.”

She hadn't looked worried to him, Draco thought dryly, but he doubted he would recognize the expression on her face if he did see it. Granger was the single most self-possessed woman he'd ever met.

“Are they all right? Well, I imagine they are frightened; they've left behind everything they've ever thought of as home, but they'll be safer where they're going.” Again she paused. “Yes, I have it right here.” She reached into the same drawer that had held the mobile and withdrew a file, which she laid on her blotter and opened. “They're to travel under the names Debra and Benji Stovers; we feel that's close enough to his actual name for the boy to not be quite as confused. He's so young; three is little more than a toddler, and he can't possibly understand what's happening.”

Draco felt his heart begin to race; she was talking about Desiree and Brighton Stavendish; he knew it. 

“Their documents will reach you this evening, along with an International Portkey. It will leave at six a.m. tomorrow morning, taking them to a warded arrival location in Monk Lake. You should probably give the child a mild sleeping drought for the journey; it will make him easier to handle, and Father Tim will meet them and be able to help her. He'll drive them to St. Benedictine's Convent. They should dress warmly; it's dreadfully cold there. If there's anything further, I'll be in touch with you before they're scheduled to depart. You should do a complete lockdown between now and tomorrow morning; this is the point at which things went wrong the last time, and we wouldn't want a repeat of that.”

Now Draco was positive she was talking about the missing Stavendish mother and child; when he'd gotten his tip about Sera and Blake Sebastian from their contact inside Granger's own department, they'd warned him that the pair had been scheduled to be moved the next morning, so he had to hurry. Draco never passed a tip onto the family of a missing person until he himself had, at the very least, seen the subject with his own eyes. 

He knew he'd never forget it for as long as he lived; Sera Sebastian, lovely in a flowered skirt and pale pink blouse, holding little Blake's hand as they walked along a hilltop not far from the house in Dorset. The child had been gripping a fistful of wildflowers in his chubby hand, his blond curls catching the sunlight. Draco Apparated back to Blaise's, and they contacted Sebastian. Forty-eight hours later, the mother was dead and the child missing. Draco blinked quickly, pushing aside the sick foreboding the memory stirred. He didn't have time for that now; he had to figure out a way to get out of Granger's office. He didn't know where in Bath the Stavendish mother and child were, but he knew they were headed to somewhere called 'Monk Lake', and that nearby was a 'St. Benedictine's Convent'. How hard could that be to find?

Granger finished her phone call and returned the mobile and the file to the drawer, locking it carefully while Draco tried to figure out the easiest way to escape. As it happened, Granger supplied it herself. She pressed a button on the top of her desk.

“Charlotte, could you come in here please?”

Moments later, there was a soft tap on the door, and the same intern who had been chatting with Granger in the hall opened the door.

“Yes, Mrs. Weasley?”

“I need for you to take these files down to accounting,” Granger said, holding out a stack of the budgets Draco had seen her perusing. The girl moved away from the door, leaving it open. Draco braced himself, waiting until she was well clear, then hurried through as quickly and as silently as he could. All of the way to the lifts, he chewed his lower lip, trying to recall if he'd ever heard of a place called 'Monk Lake'.

 

~***~

 

Hermione Granger-Weasley waited until she heard the near silent click of her office door, then reached into the collar of her robes, pulling out a long gold chain from which hung a gold key. She removed it over her head, then unlocked the top desk drawer on her right. Reaching in, she withdrew a mobile telephone and flipped it open. She pressed a button on the face, then brought it to her ear, waiting. When the distinctive, deep voice answered, she leaned back in her chair. 

“All right, it's done,” she said briskly. “I just hope you know what in the hell you're doing.”

~***~

 

Draco swerved as a truck approached him through the gathering dusk, cursing loudly as it passed by his drivers window, throwing up a combination of snow and slush. He'd never get used to the American habit of driving on the right side of the road; it had been challenge enough for him to learn to drive a bloody automobile to begin with, but Blaise had thought that it was important, particularly when he was in the field. And particularly, apparently, when he was in America. Because the bloody yanks drove everywhere. 

He muttered, waiting for the GPS system in the hired Chrysler to indicate that it was time to turn. He knew that he was going a good fifteen miles under the posted speed limit, but the weather was bad, and he had no idea where in hell he was, other than in the wilds of someplace called Northern Idaho.

When he'd read about the place before departing via International Portkey, the brochure had called Monk Lake, Idaho the northwest's premier location for beautiful vistas, and year round outdoor fun. Draco snorted; outdoor fun, his arse. It was wet, and cold, and getting colder by the moment, according to the temperature gauge in the center of the dash. It was thirty four degrees outside, which was down ten from the forty four it had been when Draco had let the car at what could laughingly be called an airport in Bonner's Ferry.

He had come in to the tiny Portkey office, hidden in the rear of the humble terminal, staggering and dizzy. Travel by International Portkey was a bitch; Apparation on steroids, and even though Draco had been doing it for much of his life, it was almost impossible to land gracefully. It had taken a moment for him to get his bearings, only to find when he did that he was being stared at by an older witch who embodied the name more than anyone Draco had ever seen, and a young woman with bright blue hair and an assortment of piercings in her face. He blinked, straightened his heavy wool overcoat with his gloved hands, and checked his sleeve to make certain that his wand was still currently in the holster strapped to his forearm. Finding himself relatively unscathed by the jarring landing, he straightened, lifting his chin and approaching the desk.

“I need to let an automobile,” he said. The older woman smirked. “A Mercedes or an Audi, if they're available.” Blaise would shit kittens when he got the bill, but Draco was beyond caring. If he didn't want to pay for luxury accommodations, he could get off of his lazy arse and do some of the field work himself.

The older witch curled her lip, leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Well, la di dah,” she said snidely. “Listen, handsome, --” the way she said it made quite clear it wasn't an compliment, “-- we don't have a Mercedes or an Audi.” She smirked at him. “We don't have anything at the moment.”

“That's not true, Hilda,” the younger witch said, eyeing her senior then turning a bright smile onto Draco. “You're going to drive?”

Draco prayed for patience. “I rather like to blend in with the Muggle population as much as possible.”

The older witch snorted out a laugh. “No chance of that in that get up.”

Draco looked down at his tailored overcoat and the front of his grey Armani suit. “What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?”

“Not a thing,” the younger woman said quickly. “You look very... elegant.” Draco felt somewhat mollified by the statement. “We don't have any foreign models at the moment, but we do have a Chrysler Sebring.” Her eyes sparkled. “It's very pretty, and it has GPS. A producer from Hollywood who was up here skiing got called back for some emergency and left the car.” She batted long turquoise lashes at him. “He said he thought I had a very photogenic face.”

“I'm sure you do,” Draco said tightly. “And I'll take the car, thank you.”

He'd stopped at something called a 'rest stop', (although it was anything but with noisy children running about at least a dozen enormous diesel trucks idling in the parking lot), to change into dark denims, a dark jumper, jacket and hiking boots, and was now on the highway in the gathering dusk, being pelted by a wet combination of snow, ice and rain, and dodging oncoming traffic when he'd momentarily forget and drift into the wrong lane. If he made it through this bloody thing alive, it would be a miracle. 

Other than St. Benedictine's Convent, he had no bloody idea where he was going. They'd done an on-line search. (Well, Blaise had; Draco didn't trust any box with that much information in it. Auto's were bad enough; he wasn't getting involved with all of that wireless nonsense.) Aside from some pictures of a castle-like edifice and some stern looking nuns in blue habits, there really hadn't been very much information available about the Victorian-era convent. It had at one time been a retreat for Jesuit priests, (hence the name Monk Lake. It had had a previous name, something unpronounceable in the local Native American dialect, that had loosely translated to men in black robes), but the Sisters of Mercy had taken it over sometime in the late forties and turned it into a boarding school. It now boasted a day care center, which had immediately sent Draco's instincts into high alert; who in the world would need a day care facility in the middle of a forest at what had once been a retreat for priests? Loggers?

He searched the sides of the gradually narrowing highway and saw nothing but trees covered with a thin coat of ice, and was beginning to think he'd missed his turn when the long awaited, automated female voice of the GPS finally spoke up.

“Turn right in one point six miles.”

“About time,” Draco growled, slowing and searching for the turn. Even so, he nearly missed it, and he cursed again when he saw that it was little better than a gravel trail.

“Oh, brilliant,” he snarled, slowing the big car to little better than a crawl. He was surrounded on all sides by a thick growth of trees and the road had abruptly taken a sharp new angle; straight up.

The wheels spun for a moment on the loose rock, and Draco cursed again, punching down on the gas pedal. The burst of additional speed sent the car lurching upwards, but after a moment, the tires caught and the car began to climb.

He followed the twisting, winding road into gathering gloom for so long that he couldn't imagine that he wasn't near the peak when the female voice finally announced; “your destination in one point nine miles.”

“Finally,” Draco huffed. He searched down both sides, then seeing a space between two of the old-growth pine trees, he carefully eased the car off of what he would later laughingly refer to as a road. He wanted to do his final approach on foot. His hope was that he could spot the woman and the brat and be back in the car, texting the confirmation to Blaise so that he could pass the information on to Stavendish, and Draco could be back in London by morning. He still wasn't comfortable with their involvement in this, and all he wanted was for it to be over and done with.

The ground he pulled onto off of the road was uneven, and he stiffened when the car lurched forward, rocking to a sudden stop at a sharp angle, the nose pointed down in an overgrown rut.

“Oh, fucking fabulous,” he growled, throwing on the emergency brake. The car's headlights cut through the almost night-like blackness of the thick undergrowth, and he was unaccountably reminded of the Forbidden Forest and a night when he'd been a frightened eleven-year-old. He even thought he saw the gleam of eyes watching him from amidst the trees, and he slammed the lights off, sending the car into darkness. He didn't think that there were monsters in these woods the way there had been in the other, but he wasn't much interested in coming face to face with anything of the four footed variety either, thank you very much. 

He yanked the keys from the ignition, and exited the car.

Only to step immediately into a rut and go down on his face in a sprawl.

Coming up with pine needles and moss and god only knew what else in his mouth did not improve his mood.

“Son of a – bitch!” he spat, rolling over to sit up, only to find his arse in a puddle. “Fuck!” he shrieked when the frigid water immediately soaked through his jeans and pants and his balls took a dousing. He jumped to his feet, which slid on the loose forest floor, and the only thing that kept him from landing once again on his arse was the review mirror on the passenger side of the car.

Clutching it like a man clinging to a life raft, he was able to haul himself, bedraggled and now wet, to his feet.

“I'm going to fucking kill Blaise,” he muttered, using the car to pull himself laboriously toward the road. “Then I'm going to kill Granger. In the slowest, bloodiest, most viscerally satisfying manner I can devise.”

He snarled expletives all of the way to the road, such as it was, and jerked his wand from his sleeve, casting a drying and water repelling spell on his clothes and warming and protective spells on his hands, having belatedly realized he'd torn off his gloves while he was changing, and his face. When the spell moved over his arse and his balls, the brush of magic acted like a jolt of static electricity and he shuddered before jamming his wand back into its holster and starting up the road at as quick a pace as he could manage, given the loose gravel and the incline. Within a hundred yards, his thighs were burning and he was panting from the exertion.

“Bloody sodding place – couldn't be on – level ground,” he muttered breathlessly. “Had to be on the top of a god forsaken mountain like a fucking –,” his voice caught in his throat when he rounded a corner and looked up, “-- castle.”

For St. Benedictine's resembled nothing quite as much as that; a medieval castle, perched on the top of hill in the middle of Northern Idaho. 

The front facade was hewn of dark stone, climbing five stories straight up, that left one with the impression that it had been there for hundreds of years. There were mullioned windows across the front, and a round turret tower on one end with a peaked, grey shingled roof that was reminiscent of the one at Hogwarts that had housed Dumbledore's office. The whole of it sat atop a massive outcropping of black boulders, and Draco searched the foundation for someplace to climb up. When he didn't find one, he continued on the road, keeping close to the trees thickly lining it in case someone should appear and he would need to jump for cover.

The road actually curled behind the imposing structure, and it was just as it began to level off slightly that Draco felt the first brush of very strong security wards. He stopped immediately, crouching down and angling his head, trying to identify what his body was sensing.

It was the reason Draco did all of the field work for the agency; not only was he extraordinarily gifted at stealth, he could identify spells, hexes and wards just from their reaction to his own magic, something which Blaise remained both in awe of and resented in equal measure. Draco had always had a gift for sensing magic, even as a child, and Severus Snape, having recognized his gift early in his tenure at Hogwarts, had helped him to hone his skills. Since teaming up with Blaise, Draco had found his abilities tested time and time again. They'd yet to fail him. 

Closing his eyes, Draco tentatively reached forward with his hand, feeling the heavy weight of the magic pulsating against his palm. There were anti-apparition wards, which he'd been expecting, assuming this was a magical location. There were also masking spells that would protect the grounds from Muggle eyes, another common ward, and yet another that would provide camouflage, projecting one image while protecting and hiding something else. This spell Draco didn't recognize, and it fascinated him. He'd heard of such an obscure ward; apparently Granger had used something like it with success during the war, but he'd never encountered it before. He had to try several incantations designed to reverse the magic before he felt it dissolve against his hand, and he allowed himself a slight smile. Now he would be able to see clearly whatever they'd been trying to hide. He straightened slightly and crept forward, only to encounter a ward so strong that it resembled nothing so much as a solid brick wall. He gasped, shocked by its strength and the fact that he hadn't sensed it at all, and took a step back, startled. 

This one was intimidating. It had been set by an extremely powerful wizard, one with senior Auror-strength knowledge and abilities. Thinking of the weasel, because if Granger had her hand in this then most assuredly her Auror husband did as well, Draco sneered. The day had yet to dawn that he couldn't out-think that ginger cretin, and he drew his wand, trying every runic symbol in combination with every unscrambling spell he could think of.

He had no idea how long he stood there, shielded from the elements as the rain turned to snow and began to drift to the ground around him. Long enough that the twilight had deepened, and the convent loomed large and faintly menacing above him. He was about to give up in irritation, vowing to come back early the next morning, when he felt the first chink in the ward. Pushing outward with his magic, he felt an opening appear directly in front of him, almost like a break in a hedge in a maze, and he stepped through it quickly before it could close again. 

It was amazing what he found once through; here, the ground was dry and the atmosphere much lighter. There was grass, still a vivid green, where only rocky ground had appeared before, and there were flower boxes at the windows, rendering a suddenly much friendlier appearing convent almost charming in comparison to the forbidding facade seen from further down the road.

“Very nice, Weasley,” Draco murmured. “Surprising considering, but nice.”

There was a low rock wall bordering the convent's front lawn, and Draco crept to it, hunkering down next to it as he looked up toward the many windows, now seeing curtains and light where before there had only been blackness, like dozens of unseeing eyes. He saw some sort of childish mobile through one, and what looked like crayola drawings taped to a wall through another. 

If he hadn't already been convinced that this was clearly a carefully guarded refuge for children, the high pitched, happy shout he suddenly heard, coming from behind the building, would have. It sounded as if there was a playground back there, and staying close to the wall, Draco followed the noise.

Indeed, there was a playground; one complete with swings and teeter-totters and magically produced, fading sunlight. From his vantage point crouching behind the stone wall, he could see at least a dozen and a half children anywhere from two to twelve, and a half-dozen women garbed in the blue habits of the St. Benedictine's nuns. The children played happily in the charmed warmth, and the nuns seemed both calm and kind, from the ones watching the toddlers to those quietly chatting on a park bench beneath a towering pine tree.

Draco fished a photo out of the inside pocket of his jacket and began to search amongst the children for the Stavendish boy, looking down at the dimpled smile, then back up, trying to see if there were any young boys Brighton's age. He'd just spotted one with bright strawberry curls, playing in a sand box, when something else caught his eye and he went very still as a creeping sensation traveled the length of his spine.

There was a man across the playground. Draco had not noticed him at first, but now wondered how he ever could have missed him. He was standing with his back towards Draco talking to a young nun, his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. He was wearing a long sleeved black shirt and Draco saw just a thin edge of a white collar. A priest, then, Draco mused, still arrested by the sight of the broad shoulders and narrow hips. Not the least fazed by the idea that he was oggling a priest, Draco stared at the man's high, tight arse, momentarily arrested by the muscle in his legs and backside, taken with the sense of leashed vitality about him. But there was more than that; with his short black hair lifting in the mild breeze and what Draco could see of his profile, just his jaw line and cheek. He was also wearing glasses, the frames of which gleamed in the sun, and he could almost have been...

“No,” Draco muttered aloud, straightening until he was standing behind the wall, completely forgetting the need for secrecy. “No; it can't be.”

The man began to turn and Draco stood breathlessly, his heart hammering at the base of his throat. And then, just when he would have seen if his suspicions were correct, his entire field of vision was filled with the ugliest face he'd ever seen in his life. Black eyes were narrowed beneath staggeringly thick black brows, and fleshy lips curled down at the corners below a hatchet-like nose.

Shrieking in an embarrassingly emasculated tone, Draco fell back a step and stumbled, realizing that not only was the man ugly, he was huge. As in, nearly Hagrid-sized. Draco stared in horror as the creature pointed a wand at him, a parody of a toothy smile splitting his lips. 

“Nighty night, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco had only moments to ponder how the beast knew his name before everything around him went black.

 

~***~

 

When Draco woke, his head was splitting. Moaning, his first cognizant thought of the pain, he lifted his hands and cradled his aching head, curling onto his side, his knees near his chest.

“Think I might have overdone the stunner,” he heard a gruff voice say from nearby.

“Possibly,” another voice replied, softer, in a more refined tone but with a trace of irony. And the accent was British; none of the hard 'r's and flat vowels that American's favored. “But then, he's never been able to hold out against a well-placed hex.”

Draco lurched up into a sitting position gracelessly. His eyes jerked open and he looked around frantically, only to cry out as pain shot from temple to temple.

“If you'll be still, the pain won't be as bad,” the maddening voice said condescendingly. Draco snarled, turning his head and forcing his eyes open, and all of his suspicions were confirmed. Standing across the room, leaning casually against a door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, was Harry Bloody Potter, wearing the black clothes and white collar of a Catholic priest.

“You fucking son of a bitch,” Draco growled, making as if to lurch toward him. Instantly, a meaty hand spread in the middle of his chest, stopping him, and he jerked his head to the side only to find the monster from earlier grinning at him from a seat next to the narrow cot he'd been lying on.

“Ah, ah, ah, Mister Malfoy,” he said jovially, small black eyes sparkling, “No threatening Father Tim, now. Seriously, cursing a man of the cloth. Don't you fear for your mortal soul at all?”

“Man of the cloth?” Draco spat. “Since bloody when?”

“A while.”

Potter straightened away from the door way and took the few steps that separated them, moving with a studied, lethal grace. It made Draco's chest feel tight, and he hated that the bastard looked better than he'd ever seen him. The pale complexion and dark circles beneath the green eyes, which had made him seem haunted and tortured, were gone, replaced with a tawny tan and healthy, rested expression. And Potter held his gaze as he crossed to him; there was no sign of the shifting eyes and innate discomfort in his own skin that had been so much a part of his youth. Draco had thought his gaunt intensity and inherent shyness endearing, but it was nothing compared to now. The last five years had been kind to Potter; he looked nothing like the man who had walked out of Draco's flat that Fall morning, never to return.

His hair was shorter than Draco had ever seen it, but it suited him. In fact, while he'd always found Potter too good-looking for his peace of mind, the man who approached him made Draco feel breathless, and he hated the old desire that stirred in his chest, and lower. 

Potter hooked his foot around a simple wooden stool and pulled it over, settling himself next to the cot, his elbows braced on his knees. He laced his fingers together casually and leaned forward, his eyes on Draco's face.

“You can head out, Juli,” Potter said. “I've got this.”

It took Draco a moment to realize that 'Julie' was apparently the giant with the enormous nose. 

The person in question frowned, rendering his face truly frightening. Draco fought the urge to scoot as far away from him as possible.

“You sure about that, boss?” Juli said. “I think this one would be more than happy to hex your balls off.”

“Truer words...” Draco ground out between clenched teeth. Potter smiled slightly, and the dimple that had once been Draco's undoing creased his cheek next to the right corner of his mouth. Draco forced his eyes away.

“You've got his wand,” Potter said imperturbably. Draco stiffened, his right hand reaching instinctively for his left forearm. The holster was still there, but even thorough the thick layers of clothing he could feel that his wand was gone, and he scowled. “Besides, I could always take him, anyway. I'll be fine.” Draco shot him a narrow-eyed look, and the amusement on Potter's face ripened.

Juli stood, clearly hesitant, and pointed his enormous, beefy hand into Draco's face. 

“Fuck with him and you fuck with me, pretty boy,” he snarled. Draco swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth. “You got me?”

Draco eyed him dispassionately. “It seems fairly self-explanatory,” he said, trying for his usual, bored drawl. “I'll try to keep up.”

Juli shot Potter a wry look. “Oh, this one is adorable.”

Potter smirked. “You've no idea.”

Juli paused just long enough to send Draco one more dark look, then he left the room, closing the wooden door behind him.

Draco raised a brow. “Julie?”

“Short for Julian,” Potter supplied. “Julian Eagle Feather. His mother named him after novelist Julian May, apparently without realizing that she was a woman.” His full lips twitched. 

“Julian who?” Draco asked, frowning. Potter shook his head. 

“It doesn't matter.” He pursed his lips slightly, studying Draco's face. “What does matter is why you're here.”

Draco stared into the searching green eyes. “I'd like to know what the hell you're doing here,” he countered. “Everyone thinks you're dead; did you know that?”

Potter shrugged one shoulder casually. “I don't much care what they think,” he said. “My work is here; there's nothing for me there.”

Draco was surprised by how much that hurt. “Nothing,” he said tightly. “Well, you'd certainly be right about that.”

Potter's expression didn't change.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, his voice level.

“There was a question?” Draco shot back, leaning against the wall above the cot and crossing his arms. “I don't recall hearing one.”

Potter's expression still didn't change, and this was new, as well. Before, Draco had been able to read every thought that had gone through Potter's head, and been able to rile him up with little more than a well-placed snide comment. Now, Potter merely continued to look into his eyes patiently.

“What are you doing here, Draco?” he said finally, his voice lowered. It seemed to move over the surface of Draco's skin, almost like a caress, and he tightened his arms against a shiver.

“What? I can't merely want to take in the beauty of the wilds of... wherever the hell we are?”

Potter's lips twitched. “That would be Northern Idaho. And no; the idea that you would just happen to be sightseeing in Idaho stretches the limits of credulity.”

Draco arched a brow. “Credulity? My goodness, Potter. We have been brushing up on our vocabulary. Did you take that away from seminary with you?”

Potter continued to stare at him mildly. “I've got all night, Draco, if you want to continue playing games.”

“So do I, apparently, as you've taken my wand and I've no doubt put a guard on the door.”

Potter looked down at his hands for a moment. “Fine. Don't tell me who hired you. I can make an educated guess.” His eyes lifted, pining Draco where he sat. “Maxwell Stavendish; am I right?” Draco looked away mulishly, and he heard a soft sigh. It was the first sign that anything he'd said or done had affected Potter at all, and he clung to that. “I need for you to understand something,” Potter went on in the same mild tone. “The people who come here are seeking sanctuary, and protection, and we take that very seriously. Very seriously. We won't let anyone endanger them. Do you understand?”

“Meaning what?” Draco said wryly, looking back at him. “Someone actually would notice if I went missing permanently.”

Something flickered in Potter's eyes and then was gone so quickly it might never have been there at all. “It wouldn't be necessary to kill you for the problem to be solved,” Potter countered, and the flatness in his voice made Draco feel chilled. “The only choice would be between Obliviating you of your time here and dumping you somewhere closer to town --” he paused meaningfully, “ – or wiping out the memory of your entire life and stranding you in the woods. Juli is opting for the later. If you're smart, you won't do anything to make me agree with him.”

Potter stood then and turned toward the door, and Draco was so stunned by what he'd said and angry at the easy dismissal that he wanted to lash out.

“So, does your church know that you like to shove your cock into a man's arse?” he asked harshly, but Potter didn't even slow down on his way to the door. “That was no impediment, then? Perhaps your tastes have changed. Running a half way house for kiddies would certainly grant you unlimited access to them, now wouldn't it? Maybe Father Tim prefers little boys.”

Draco watched as Potter stopped, his shoulders rigid. He turned slowly, and his eyes were so cold that Draco realized he had gone too far.

“You've always been cruel, but you didn't used to be stupid,” Potter said starkly. He stared at Draco for a moment longer, then left the room, slamming the door viciously behind him. The noise echoed hollowly inside of Draco's aching head. 

When he lifted his hand to it, it was trembling.

~***~

 

There had been nights during the war that left Draco with such lingering scars he never wanted to have to experience the like, ever again. When the noseless wonder had stalked the Manor's halls, for instance, and even some of those when the Carrows had been in charge and he'd been at Hogwarts. Amycus and Alecto hadn't been fans of Draco's oh so snooty parents, and therefore had enjoyed making him the butt of many of their petty cruelties. But he couldn't recall any night in recent memory being as miserable as the one he'd just passed.

It hadn't taken long for him to get the lay of the room once he rose from the hard, narrow cot; it was perhaps twelve by twelve, with bare stone walls and floors all immaculately cleaned, an empty fireplace, and one narrow window. He'd paused to look out through it, and caught his breath; the scenery, at least, was stunning. There was a lake in the distance, dark with the approaching night and heavy, low hanging clouds, pine trees covered with snow growing right to its banks and covering the land as far as the eye could see. It looked like the views from the towers at Hogwarts, and he wondered absently if that was part of the reason Potter found himself there. He stood at the window until night cloaked the view, then returned to the cot, pulling his legs up and waiting. Surely, someone would bring him something to eat. Wouldn't they?

As it turned out, they hadn't. Nor did he hear a single sound, aside from bells which rang once, filling the dark night with their peals and causing him to jump in surprise. The darkness grew deeper, and what warmth there was faded, leaving him hungry and cold, his head still throbbing with the after affects of Juli's hex and his bladder beginning to complain.

Still, no one came. He vaguely remembered a chamber pot in the corner, and was horrified that it might be intended for actual use. He'd thought it merely some sort of decorative element, although why was beyond him; there weren't any decorative elements, aside from a crude wooden crucifix that was hanging above the fireplace. He didn't know how far into the night he lasted, but finally his bladder got the better of him, and he'd been forced to find the pot with his hands in the darkness. To his immense relief, it had been dry. At least until he'd used it.

After that, he'd curled up on the hard, narrow cot and tried to sleep, but he couldn't. There were no blankets, and thick as his clothes were they were not equal to the chill. He was so cold that his fingers and toes ached, and the further it went into the dark night the more he regretted his impetuous digs at Potter. The man he'd known wouldn't really Obliviate him and leave him in the forest to die, but he wasn't sure Potter was that man any longer. He certainly didn't look the same. For all that he appeared healthier, there was a new hardness about him that both confused and on some level, excited Draco. 

Draco had nursed the memories of the last time he'd seen Potter for five years, even though it had scarcely been their finest hour. Their relationship had been stained for a week before, Draco recalled; ever since the night he'd come home and told Potter that they'd found Sera and Blake Sebastian.

They'd fought about it, loudly.

“How can you do that,” Potter had demanded, his pinched face angry. “How can you turn them over to the man when you know he can't possibly want the boy?”

“It's my job, Potter,” Draco responded dismissively. “And you can't possibly know that his father doesn't want him.”

“You yourself told me Blake's a Squib.”

Draco shrugged negligently. “It doesn't mean his father doesn't want him.”

Potter's eyes narrowed. “You think a man with the pure-blood prejudices of Sebastian is going to suddenly want a Squib heir? Give me a break, Draco.”

“He might,” Draco said, sounding bored.

“Would your father?”

Draco had turned and pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare. 

“Draco,” Harry said, his voice softening. “How can you continue to do this when you know it's wrong?”

“I don't know that it's wrong,” he shot back, still stung by the comment about his father.

“You do,” Harry said emphatically.

“No, you do,” Draco said, his jaw tight. “And I'd appreciate it if you didn't ascribe to me sentiments that I do not share. I don't have to agree with you just because we shag, Potter.” 

Harry had gone still, staring at him across the dim room. Draco could remember the precise color of his eyes in the soft light, and see the flush that stained his high cheekbones. “And that's all it is to you? Shagging?”

“What else?” Draco retorted, knowing the words were hurtful and reveling in them. “You're not half bad as far that goes, but it's not as if I love you.”

Harry had inhaled harshly and straightened, then turned and moved rigidly to the floo, going home to his own flat. They'd scarcely spoken for the next five days, although they'd had angry sex more than once. It was what they did best, after all. Or so Draco had told himself.

And then had come the morning when Potter had risen before him, not uncommon, showered and then dressed, mumbling something about putting on the kettle as he'd left the bedroom. When Draco had come down to the kitchen he'd found it empty save for the Daily Prophet on the breakfast table, open to the article about Seraphina Sebastian's lifeless body being fished out of the Thames. What he hadn't known in that moment was that he'd go five years before he saw Potter again.

Draco's hands were trembling when he curled them into his chest; he tried to convince himself it was from the cold and not the memories that were haunting him, and he tossed and turned in an effort to find a comfortable position on the lumpy cot. His eyes were burning as he clenched them shut, hoping to force himself to sleep.

He only knew he'd succeeded when he came awake again with an uncomfortable lurch. When he blinked his eyes open, he bit back a startled shriek at finding two of the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, peering at him over the edge of the cot.

Scooting away from the unblinking gaze, it took a few moments for Draco to realize that what he was looking into were the wide eyes of a child. A small child with very thick black lashes, sleek black hair held back with a tiny pink barrette just above the perfectly arched right brow, and skin as pale as milk. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled a fairy tale his mother had read to him when he was little; one about a princess who had been 'as fair as milk, with eyes the color of the bluebells, hair as black as pitch and lips as red as the red, red rose'. Unbidden, he felt his lips pull up in slight smile.

“Well, good morning, Snow White,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. The child hid a smile behind her hand, ducking her head into her shoulder, but her wide eyes remained on his face. “You are the princess known as Snow White, are you not?” he persisted, and he saw her small shoulders move in a silent giggle even as she shook her head. “No? I was so certain, because surely you must be the fairest in the land.”

And she was, he saw when she lifted her little chin, an exquisitely beautiful child. Her hair hung around her face in loose, gleaming black ringlets and she was wearing a pink top with a small ruffle around her neck that accented the soft pink blush on her cheeks. 

“Where did you come from?” Draco asked her, pushing up onto his elbows. She bit her full lower lip and turned, pointing behind her at the door to the room, which was now standing ajar. “Ah,” he said, looking back into her eyes. “Does that mean I'm free to go?” She looked so guilt stricken that Draco could only smile. “Don't worry; I was rather certain that it didn't.”

“There you are!”

Draco looked up to see a lovely young woman in a blue nun's habit enter the room, her face wreathed in a smile as she crossed to the little girl. She held out her arms and the child reached for her, and the nun swung her up easily, propping her on her hip. It was then that Draco could see that the child was older than he'd thought she was, perhaps six or seven when he'd assumed she was little more than a toddler, and that her legs seemed to hang uselessly within her blue jeans, her feet limp within dark blue socks.

“Aren't you a clever girl, to get this far all by yourself!” the woman said warmly, pressing a kiss to the child's round cheek. “But you really mustn't come upstairs unless Father Tim tells you that it's all right, understand?”

The child nodded and slipped her index and second fingers into her mouth, leaning her head on the woman's shoulder. The nun turned to Draco, her expression turning guarded. “I'm sorry if she bothered you,” she said politely.

“She didn't at all,” he said quickly. 

The woman nodded and started to turn when something about her seemed terribly familiar. 

“Wait,” he called, and she stopped, turning back. “Do I know you?”

An ironic smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “No, you don't know me. We sat in the same classrooms for the better part of six years, but you don't know me.”

Draco sat up. “I do remember,” he said quickly, wondering if it would be possible to turn her into an ally. “You have a twin, don't you?”

One dark eyebrow arched and her smirk widened. “Well, well. You did notice. I was certain my red and gold tie rendered me invisible.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “As I recall, the only Gryffindor you seemed much interested in had black hair and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.”

Draco felt heat climb his throat and knew that he was blushing when her smile ripened. “He'll be along in a bit, I imagine. You're going to have to stay here until he says otherwise. This nosy parker--,” she rubbed her nose against the little girl's in her arms, “ – is simply too good with an Alohomora for her own good.” The child giggled silently and pressed her face into the nun's neck. She looked back at Draco. “I'm sure I'll be seeing you around.” Again she started to go.

“Please,” Draco said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning forward. “Won't you at least remind what your name is?”

She turned her head and looked at him, and he felt as humbled by the disdain in her gaze as he ever had by anything in his life. 

“Sister Beatrice,” she said finally, her voice solemn. “That's really all you need to know.”

And with that, she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

For the next hour, for it was at least that long, Draco sat on the edge of the cot, staring at his hands. Had he really been that oblivious in school? He was certain he had been, actually. He'd been raised to believe that he was better than everyone else, and so he'd only taken notice of those he thought his social equal, or those he could use for gain. Of course, he'd noticed Potter. Potter, whether the sot liked it or not, had been the most influential wizard of their generation. Draco had tried and failed to make him a friend; the only recourse open to him after that had been to turn him into an enemy.

It hadn't worked, of course. Oh, he'd put on an excellent show, but it hadn't been real. And apparently, if the nun was to be believed, not everyone had bought into it. She was right; aside from Granger, who he'd had to notice simply because she was so fucking annoying, the only Gryffindor he'd ever paid any attention to, (well aside from Weasley and Longbottom, who he'd lived to torture) was Potter. In many ways, his entire life had revolved around Harry sodding Potter. He rubbed his face with his hands, grimacing when his fingers encountered the uneven stubble on his jaw, then moving on to press his fingers into his tired eyes. Potter. It had always been Potter.

This train of thought led immediately to a vision of the chosen prat in the black slacks, shirt and white collar of a cleric. Was he actually a priest? Draco had no clue how long it took to become a Catholic priest, but he somehow thought it must be more than five years. And in the six months that he and Potter had spent screwing each others brains out most weekends, Potter had never once mentioned being religious, or going to church. Did someone suddenly find a calling like that, out of the blue? The idea of Potter, who loved cock as much as any man Draco had ever been with, suddenly choosing a life of celibacy was so outrageous it scarcely bore thinking about. Merlin, it had been Potter who had approached him in a men's room at a restaurant when he was on a date with someone else, backing him into a stall, on his knees with Draco's cock in his mouth before he'd ever kissed him for the first time. Of course, Draco had been so thrilled that he'd Apparated them directly into his bedroom. They hadn't come out again for two days, other than to order out and shower occasionally...

The sound of the door opening startled Draco from his musings, and he looked up to find the object of his ruminations coming into the room, black attire painfully neat, white collar in place. And that was another thing; since when was Potter neat? He'd been a disaster when they'd been dating. What had happened to him? He was standing there, neatly shaved, short hair not exactly in place but not a complete mess, either, looking so fit and handsome that Draco's palms began to sweat. 

“Get up.”

The words weren't barked, but it was a near thing, and Draco straightened, his hackles rising.

“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly, his voice frosty.

“I said, get up,” Potter repeated, his expression hard. “Unless of course you aren't hungry and don't mind waiting until tonight to eat. This isn't Hogwarts, where you can order whatever you want from the house-elves. The kitchen is only open until nine, then lessons start. If you don't want to wait until lunch, you'll get up and come with me now.”

Without waiting Potter turned and stepped out into the hall, and Draco had a very brief argument with himself over obeying Potter's high-handed tone. Ultimately, his stomach won and he stood, shaking down his trouser legs and trying to make his hair as presentable as he could with his fingers.

It was much warmer out in the hallway, leading Draco to believe that most of the premises, save the room where he'd been locked, was under heating charms. 

“So, was your goal to freeze me to death?” he said snidely.

“If my goal was to freeze you to death,” Potter answered without turning to look at him, “you'd be dead.” His voice was so flat and so devoid of emotion, something Potter had never been, that it made Draco blink. Until he remembered his parting shot at Potter the night before, and in fairness he thought he might be lucky the man hadn't hexed him on sight. “Juli was in charge of your accommodations,” he went on, leading Draco down a long, sparse hallway. “If you have an issue with them, take it up with him.”

Draco snorted, but he didn't say anything else. Like he was going to bring anything up with a man who could snap him in half like a twig.

The upper floor was so silent that their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. Once they had headed down a wide staircase and entered the lower level, that changed, and Draco could hear the sound of children's high-pitched voices in the distance. 

He looked around, finding himself fascinated by his surroundings. Where the top floor was monastic and plain to the point of appearing deserted, the main floor was every inch a building occupied by children. There was a large portrait of a stern looking nun at the foot of the stairs, with the name plate “Sister Mary Margaret, founder of St. Benedictine's School for Needy Children and Mother Superior of the Sisters of Mercy from 1877 to 1921”, but other than that the art tended toward crayola drawings on parchment and brightly colored construction paper chains. Potter simply walked past all of it and led Draco to a doorway at the end of the hall as the noise grew louder. He was about to step into the room when Potter stopped, grabbing his arm in a punishing grip and pushing him back against the wall. Draco blinked, his heart lurching into his throat.

“If you have any desire to make it out of here with your sanity intact, you will listen to what I'm about to say to you,” Potter hissed, his face close. “These are children, Malfoy. Children who have been terrorized and battered and abused. And if you so much as look at one of them the wrong way I will make you very sorry. You will not stare, and you will keep your mouth shut. Do we understand one another?”

“Christ, Potter,” Draco managed to retort, even with his pulse pounding under his chin. “What do you take me for?”

“A spoiled prat who wouldn't have any problem telling a Squib exactly what he thought of them,” Potter replied through clenched teeth. “I've seen you do it, remember?”

Draco frowned. “That was just old Filch, Potter, and I was sixteen years old. Give me some credit.”

Potter stepped back, his expression stony. “When you deserve some, I will.” He turned and walked into the noisy cafeteria, leaving Draco to follow meekly along behind him, rubbing his arm.

The room was full of light and noise. There were four long tables, not unlike the dining hall at Hogwarts, but there the similarity ended. The room was perhaps a fourth of the size of the Great Hall, and the tables looked to be the cheap fold-able variety. The chairs were orange plastic, and the floor was covered with a truly unfortunate vinyl that would be at home in a Muggle grocery. Again, in this space childish art reigned supreme. It seemed as if the surface of every wall was covered in colorful scribbling. At the far end there was a long counter behind which stood several nuns wearing aprons, dishing out food, and there were two large plastic rubbish bins at the end of it, with a pass through window behind. The noise level was truly cacophonous; high-pitched voices and the sound of cutlery on plastic surrounded him, emanating from easily sixty children, seated at the tables. Every few feet there was one of the blue clad nuns, watching over their noisy young charges with gentle benevolence. 

“You sit there,” Potter ordered, pointing to the end of one of the tables where there were several empty places. “I'll go get you a tray.”

Draco started to retort with anger, because truly, Potter's attitude was starting to rankle, but he bit his tongue when his stomach gave a needy rumble. He could smell bacon, and toast, and saliva filled his mouth. He hadn't had anything to eat since morning the day before, and he was starving. So he took a seat in one of the plastic monstrosities, and kept his mouth firmly shut.

Potter strode purposefully to the line. It was impossible for Draco not to notice how broad his shoulders looked in the simple black shirt, how the cut and fit of the clothing suited him. Irritated with himself, he jerked his eyes away and began looking around the room, only to find that he was object of dozens of interested stares. He felt his color begin to climb and pushed nervously at his fringe.

The children, who watched him with such unabashed interest, all looked happy and healthy to him, and yet he couldn't help but recall Potter's words of warning. These are children, Malfoy. Children who have been terrorized and battered and abused. On first glimpse, that seemed unlikely. But the longer he studied them, the more he began to notice small things. 

One of them, a little boy no more than three or four, was being fed at the next table. It took Draco only a moment's watching to realize that he was blind. He was smiling and laughing with the other children, but the nun at his side was feeding him, and when he reached for his milk, she gently directed his hand. For every happy, animated face he saw, he noticed two that were turned away, or lowered. One girl, who was perhaps the age of a Hogwarts first year, had her head down, her face shielded by a curtain of dark brown hair. Her entire posture bespoke of despair, and as he watched, she would pick up a sliver of toast, take a nibble, and then place it back on the plate. At that rate it would take her two hours to finish it, and Draco couldn't help but wonder what had happened to her.

He saw animated movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head to find his little morning visitor waving at him from the second table over, her dark curls bouncing. He sent her a slight smile, and she beamed at him in return. She really was a very pretty little thing. He recalled her lifeless legs, and a feeling of dread began to fill him. Had someone actually done something to that beautiful child on purpose? It seemed unthinkable to him, and yet he himself knew people who had been abused as children. Pansy's uncle had molested her from the time she'd been about six; Blaise's mother used to beat him with a willow branch when he wasn't quick enough with a chore to suit her. His own father had taken that wretched cane to his back side more than once, but he hadn't considered himself abused... not until he was eighteen, and he'd said that Voldemort was a criminally unbalanced megalomaniac who was better off dead. He still had nightmares about what had happened next, and lowered his head and ran his fingers over his forehead. Perhaps he understood more about abuse than he wanted to.

“Here.”

A tray clattered onto the table in front of him, and Draco jerked, startled, and lifted his head. There was a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him, with six rashers of bacon and two pieces of buttered toast. Potter settled himself across from him, held one mug in his large, square hand and pushed another across the table toward Draco. Draco glanced in it, fearing it might be coffee.

“It's tea,” Potter provided. Draco looked up into his eyes, only to find faint amusement in his gaze. “I know you don't like coffee.” Quickly, Draco lowered his eyes to the mug in Potter's hand, assailed by a particularly strong memory.

They hadn't been doing whatever it was that they'd been doing long when he became aware of Potter's preference for coffee in the mornings.

“Coffee?” he said, his nose wrinkled. “Honestly, Potter, are you an Englishman or not? Whatever is wrong with a well brewed cup of Earl Grey?”

Potter had shrugged. “I don't like it.”

“You don't like tea,” Draco repeated as if he'd never heard such a thing in his life. “You don't like tea?”

“It's not a crime, you know,” Potter said, looking disgruntled.

“Well, it should be,” Draco shot back. “Coffee is bitter, and vulgar, and scarcely palatable and...”

Harry had taken a sip and caught Draco by the back of the neck, hauling him in and opening his mouth over Draco's still parted lips. He'd sputtered for a moment, but then the rich, dark flavor of the coffee had filled his mouth, right along with Potter's tongue. He'd managed to hold himself stiff for a moment longer, but he'd never been immune to Potter's tongue, nor the way he could use it. He quickly forgot all about the flavor of the dark roast blend Potter favored and sagged into his body.

He'd felt Potter smile against his lips. 

“See, not so bad?” Potter said with a cheeky smile when their mouths finally parted. 

Draco had huffed at the time, but he hadn't fooled Harry for a moment. Since then, every time he smelled coffee, he was reminded of that morning in his kitchen, with the soft early light of morning splashing the pale counters, and the taste of coffee on Potter's tongue.

He swallowed and picked up his fork, tearing his eyes away from the mug in Potter's capable hand and tucking into the food. It was surprisingly good, and they didn't speak for several minutes. 

“I understand you had a visitor this morning,” Potter said finally. Draco looked up to find the green eyes studying him with steely-eyed neutrality.

“I... she came to me,” he said defensively. Potter's lips twitched.

“I know that, Draco. Your door was locked.”

Draco paused, his fork half-way to his mouth. “Wait, I thought that the children here were all Squibs.”

“Most of them are,” Potter said mildly. “Why?”

“The nun, the one who found the child in my room. She said she was handy with an Alohomora, or something to that affect.”

“She is.” Potter took a sip of his coffee.

“But, that would mean she isn't a Squib,” Draco said. “So what is she doing here?”

Potter placed the mug carefully on the table. “Not all of them are Squibs. Some of them are victims of abuse, some of them are abandoned. And some of them were so young when their families decided that they were Squibs that nature simply hadn't taken its course, yet. We don't ask for verification of lack of magic before we take them in.” 

“I never imagined you would,” Draco said, stung. “If anyone knows how desperate you are to save the disenfranchised creatures of the world, it's me.” He saw Potter's lips tighten, and wished he could call back the words. 

They'd quarreled over that, too. How Potter was forever rescuing puppies, kittens, people. But then, they'd quarreled over a lot of things. 

He bit his lip and looked down at his plate, surprised that Potter hadn't shot back at him. Clearly, one of them had learned some self-control; Draco was irritated that it wasn't him.

The room gradually began to quiet as the children finished their breakfast, took their trays to the window and then left. Potter maintained his silence while Draco finished his breakfast, sipping his coffee and watching the exodus of those under his protection.

When Draco was finished, Potter stood. “Bring the tray,” he said when Draco looked up at him. He sat, startled. “Pick up the tray,” Potter repeated flatly. “No one is going to wait on you here.”

Draco stood quickly, picking up the tray and his cutlery and following Potter over to the long counter. 

“Throw out your napkin and put it through the window.”

Draco did as he was told, catching a glance of another of the blue clad nuns inside a large kitchen, washing dishes. He hurried to follow Potter as he began to walk toward a doorway. 

“Do I have to go back to my cell now?”

Potter snorted. 

“Funny you should call it a cell,” he said, holding the door for Draco. “Those used to be the priests quarters, and they called them cells.”

“Clearly, they were astute. It's about as warm as Azkaban.” Potter laughed, and Draco shot him a sour look. “It's not funny to lose feeling in ones extremities, Potter.”

“I don't imagine it is,” he replied, still clearly amused. “Like I said before, that was probably Juli's doing.” He shot Draco a sideways look. “He doesn't like you.”

“Gee, drat,” Draco said, his voice flat. “And here I was thinking we could be best friends.”

Potter huffed out a laugh. “Not likely.”

They'd walked in the opposite direction from the one they'd come earlier, and Draco glanced around.

“Not back into solitary, then.”

“No.” Potter went to a door that led to the outside and pushed it open. “There's something I want you to see, first.”

Draco raised a brow at him as he passed him. “I thought that I was destined for Obliviation.”

Potter pursed his lips, letting the door swing closed behind them. “I haven't decided that --” he looked at Draco assessingly, “ --yet.”

Draco took heart in that, and vowed to be on his best behavior. If he could still salvage something from this trip, he and Blaise might not be out their fee, after all. He tried to ignore that just thought made his skin crawl unpleasantly.

If there had been any doubt about Potter's magical abilities, the weather charms in effect on the playground would have put them to rest. On the small lawn and mulch-tended play area, it was spring. The flowers along the edges of the buildings bloomed in riotous color, and the grass was thick and luxuriant. Small children played in a sand box, and swung back and forth on the swings, and giggled on a metal whirligig that spun lazily. Just beyond the playground, the snow was falling heavily from dark clouds, piling up in drifts.

“Impressive, Potter,” Draco said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “So, it's never winter at St. Benedictine's?”

“Only from December twentieth thru January second,” he answered with a faint smile. “We find that the little ones especially don't do well if they're confined inside for too long, and the winters here can be very long.”

“What if a Muggle happens upon this place?”

Harry turned his head and pinned him with a direct look. “Muggles see what they expect to see, Malfoy. Wasn't that one of the first lesson's we were learned at Hogwarts? Besides, environmental charms are easily reversed if and when a Muggle turns up here. We've plenty of warning from the alarms connected to the wards.”

Draco began to say something, something snarky about Potter's way with environmental magic; the fact that the bastard had so little trouble controlling the weather rankled. Environmental charms had always been difficult for Draco, and Potter knew it. But the thought was interrupted when a small boy ran over and threw his chubby arms around Potter's sturdy thighs.

“Fa Tim!” he shouted happily, and Potter smiled down at him, laying his hand on top of the child's bright curls. Potter's face underwent a complete transformation when he looked at the boy; the ice in his eyes melted and his smile made Draco's breath catch. He remembered that smile, a gift from a sweaty face across sheets that smelled of sex. He hadn't realized how much he missed it.

“Master Thomas,” Potter said, ruffling the little boy's hair. “How are you this morning?”

The child rattled off a string of nonsense, to all of which Potter nodded and smiled, and even responded. When the boy ran back to the large metal truck he'd been pushing, Potter watched him go, warmth replaced by sadness in his eyes. 

“He probably won't ever speak clearly,” he said softly. “When his father determined that he was a Squib, he allowed his older son and his friends to use him for target practice. We think he was hit with so much magic that it interfered with the nerve centers in his brain. He was three.”

Draco looked at the beautiful little boy, nausea churning in his stomach. What kind of a person did that to a defenseless child? Sebastian his traitorous mind whispered. Stavendish. A cold sweat broke out along his spine.

“See that young girl, the one with the dark hair?” Potter gestured with his head, and Draco saw the girl he'd noticed at breakfast, the one who seemed to want to hide behind her hair, and nodded.

“She was eight when it became clear that she was a Squib. In an attempt to recoup what he'd considered expenses for raising her to that point, her father sold her into prostitution.”

“When she was eight?” Draco said, his voice suffocated. 

Potter nodded. “Only after breaking her in himself, of course. By the time we got her, she was so scarred internally that she can't ever have children of her own. Come with me.”

Draco blinked, horrified, and followed Potter with growing trepidation when he walked over to where the child was seated. 

“Daisy,” Potter said gently, keeping his distance, and even so she stiffened. She glanced at Potter from between skeins of dark hair. “May I come closer?”

She looked at Draco nervously.

“He'll not hurt you, I promise,” Potter said in a soothing voice. Hesitantly, she nodded. Potter went to her and sat on the bench beside her, but not close enough that they touched. “This is Draco,” he told her. “I've known him since we were both eleven. We were horrid little brats together.” Draco saw the corner of her lips twitch.

“Well, actually, I was a horrid brat,” he said, gentling his tone. “Po... Father Tim was a saint. Of course.”

At that, Potter laughed. “I was every bit as wretched as you were,” he said. “I just got away with it.”

“Well, there's the god's honest truth,” Draco drawled. “And what a refreshing change of pace to hear you admit it.” Potter gave him a wry look but his smile didn't fade. The girl looked between them, dark eyes moving quickly, but she no longer appeared frightened.

“Daisy, I was wondering if you would do me a huge favor. Draco is here doing some research, and I would very much appreciate it if you'd let him see your face.”

The dark eyes widened, and she was so clearly panicked that Draco was about to step in and say it wasn't necessary when Potter reached out, slowly and tenderly, and covered the hand that was clenched into a fist on her skinny thigh.

“If you don't want to, that's fine,” he said, his voice a soothing hush. “But I think it might help him to understand better what we do here; what's at stake. And it's important that he understand. Will you do that for me? I know it will require you to trust me.”

She continued to stare up at him, white showing all around the dark pupils of her frightened eyes. 

“If you don't want to,” Draco said quickly, no longer able to bear the terror in her eyes. “It's all right. Really it is.”

She looked at him as if assessing his worth, and he had never felt so lacking in his life. When she finally reached up with a trembling hand to pull back the curtain of thick, dark hair, Draco held his breath.

He was grateful he had been; it stopped him from gasping.

It looked, from her hairline to beneath the collar of her simple white blouse, as if someone had simply peeled back her skin, leaving the muscle and sinew exposed. He fought to keep his expression neutral and his breakfast in his stomach. 

“Thank you,” he finally managed, and she nodded and let her hair swing back into place. 

“That was very, very brave,” Potter whispered, and his voice sounded thick. Draco could understand; he was having trouble keeping tears from his own eyes. Potter leaned over and gently kissed the top of her head. When he stood and walked away, Draco followed him in a daze.

“What--?” Draco managed, then had to stop to catch his breath.

“Sectumsempra,” Potter answered. “When Hermione found her she was dying, abandoned in a children's hospital in London.”

Draco blinked quickly, still stunned. He thought of the slender, almost invisible scars that criss-crossed his torso. Had Severus not been there so quickly, his body could have resembled that. He felt a pang of loss for his old potions master, realization causing him to feel sickened at what might have been. And what was, for that poor child. 

“Gods,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair. “Is there nothing to be done for her?”

“Cursed scars, Malfoy,” Potter said without looking at him. “You were lucky the man who designed the spell was there to reverse it.” A muscle flexed in Potter's jaw. “So was I,” he continued, so quietly that Draco almost didn't hear him. 

They'd talked about it once before, when they'd first gotten together. Draco understood that Potter hadn't known what the curse did; even with the enmity that remained between them, he found he couldn't throw the scars in Potter's face. Besides, compared to Daisy's...

He looked out over the crowded playground at the children gathered there, and began to look at them with a sinking in his chest.

“Are all of them victims of abuse?”

Potter nodded. “Or neglect, which can be just as bad. A child left to try to fend for themself is just another sort of casualty.”

Draco shook his head. There were dozens of children, of all ages, crowded onto the patch of sunny ground. “I had no idea,” he mused softly. 

“Of course you didn't,” Potter said, finally turning to look at him, his expression not unkind. “Why would you? Fortunately for you, you never had to find out how your parents might have reacted if things had been different; you're not a Squib.”

Draco started to say something, insulted on his parent's behalf, but then he stopped, his mouth still open. What would have happened? In truth, he had absolutely no idea. He would have liked to have said they would have loved him anyway, and he was certain that his mother would have. But his father? Just the thought sent a squirming discomfort through his stomach. Would his father have loved him?

A gentle tugging on his trouser leg caught his attention, and diverted, Draco looked down. Sitting on the grass at his feet was the little girl who'd come into his room that morning, her lovely face turned up to him, a smile dimpling her cheeks. In spite of himself, Draco felt a smile slip across his lips.

“Well, hello, Princess,” he said.

“Miss Bug.” Potter's eyes warmed on the child. He bent and picked her up easily in his arms. “I understand you paid our guest an early morning visit.” He looked at her with gentle reprimand, and she hid her face in his shoulder. He rubbed her back to take any sting from his words. “What have I told you about using Alohomora to open locked doors?”

She straightened and her hands began to move in graceful gestures. Fascinated, Draco looked on as Potter watched her.

“That's right,” he said when she paused. “And why is that?”

Again, the child's hands began to move, and again, Potter watched, then nodded. “Yes; you might be going somewhere you don't belong.” She put her hands over her mouth, studying Potter's face with such aching regret on her features that even Draco wanted to hug her and tell her it was all right. 

“Okay, just don't do it again, please.”

She nodded, curls bouncing, then threw her arms around Potter's neck and held him tight, so tight that he eventually laughed. “All right, don't choke me.”

She leaned back and pressed a kiss to Potter's cheek, then smiled shyly at Draco.

“I understand that you've already met this lovely little sneak thief.”

She laughed silently, her hand covering her mouth, and charmed, Draco's smile widened.

“I think that's a bit harsh, Father Tim,” he said, remembering to call Potter that at the last moment. “She stole absolutely nothing from me –,” he covered the left side of his chest with his hand, “ – except perhaps my heart.”

She hid her face shyly in Potter's neck, but peaked out at him with a fetching smile. 

“Yes, she collects those,” he said ironically. “All right, you.” He leaned over and put her back on the ground, then smoothed her hair with his hand. “Go find Sister Beatrice. It's almost time for lessons.”

She nodded brightly, then turned and scooted away on her hands, pulling her legs behind her so quickly that Draco was amazed at her strength. 

“Miss Bug?” he said with a slight smile.

“Short for Scuttle Bug, because of the way she moves.” Draco shot him a frown, insulted on her behalf. Potter merely shrugged. “She likes it. Her real name is Alexandria, but it seems an awful lot of name for such a small person.”

“Do I want to know?” Draco watched her go to a nearby table where the young nun sat and pull herself easily up onto the bench beside her.

“Probably not, but you should,” Potter responded, watching her as well, his hands in his pockets. “Her family did the Attento when she was six months old...”

“Six months?” Draco said, startled. “Attento isn't supposed to be performed before a child is four!”

Draco was familiar with the spell; his parents had used the ancient charm to reveal magical powers when he was five in a ceremony attended by all of his extended family. To him, it had seemed like an elaborate birthday party; he'd gotten gifts and had a cake, so sure had his mother been of the outcome. Of course, he'd been making his toys dance around his nursery since he'd been three and a half. The ceremony was a tradition in the pure-blood households he was familiar with. But six months? He'd never heard of such a thing.

“When she failed,” Potter went on, “they gave her to a wizard who prided himself on being something of a scientist. He was doing research on how children adjust after catastrophic injury.” His eyes hardened and a muscle flex in his jaw. “He severed her spinal chord; she'll never walk again.” 

Draco stared at his profile, horrified.

“Is that why she doesn't speak?”

Potter inhaled deeply, then sighed. “No. We can't find any physiological reason for her muteness.” He turned his eyes toward Draco, and they were dark with an emotion that Draco recognized as quiet rage. “But our experts think it stems from the trauma of his having performed the procedure without first anesthetizing her.”

Draco felt as if he might vomit. He had to close his eyes and swallow deeply as his stomach abruptly lurched. “Merlin,” he muttered, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “Who does that?”

Potter turned toward him, his chin lifted. “Who, indeed.”

Draco felt anger surge though him. “I would never...”

“I know that,” Potter interrupted him. “But you'll make it possible for children to be returned to people who would.”

Draco jerked as if he'd slapped him. 

“That's unfair,” he said, his jaw tight.

“That's unfair?” Potter laughed humorlessly. “You have an interesting interpretation about what amounts to fair, Draco. What's unfair is a child who'll never walk again, or who is so badly scarred that she's afraid for people to see her.” His voice dropped into a low hiss. “Or whose mother is fished out of the Thames.”

Draco flinched. “I had no way of knowing that Sebastian would kill her.”

“Is that what you tell yourself to soothe your conscience, Draco? That you didn't know? That might have worked for that case, but you do know, now.” Potter's eyes, if possible, went even harder. They looked like chips of jade. “Is what Maxwell Stavendish paying you worth the cost of your soul, Draco? Because that's what you're bartering with now.”

“Look, you might be playing priest, here, Potter,” he snarled back. “But you don't know one damned thing about my soul.”

“The hell I don't. I saw the look on your face when I told you about Thomas, and when you saw Daisy's scars. And I saw the fury in your eyes when I told you what happened to Alexandria. You might not have understood the repercussions of your actions before, but you do now. So what are you going to do about it, Draco? Continue to turn innocent children over to people who have absolutely no reason to believe that what they're doing is wrong? They're just Squibs, right?”

“Shut up,” Draco snapped, his face heating.

“Why? You said that to me once, remember? You said it about Filch.'He's just a Squib, Potter. Who cares?.' Well, look around, Draco. There are some Squibs here amongst the witches and wizards, but they're all children. And children deserve to be loved, and cared for, not mistreated and abused and ignored...” He paused then, pulling in a deep breath through his nose before turning away. “Christ,” he said, sounding weary. “You haven't changed at all, have you?”

That stung but even so, Draco looked at the broad shoulders, stiff and tight, and had to fight the wayward instinct that wanted to persuade him to reach out and run a soothing hand over the clenched muscles. “Potter,” he started.

“Save it,” the man snapped, then called out to 'Juli', who Draco hadn't noticed standing next to a large tree, his eyes on the playground. “Take him back inside, will you? I have things to do.”

“Certainly.” Juli sent him a wide, wolfish smile.

Potter walked away without looking back. 

Draco hated that he cared.

 

~***~

 

Draco had a disquieting sense that he was missing something crucial for the rest of the day, something that had little to do with being held against his will. The enormous Indian had returned him to his cell, seemingly very amused by Draco's irritation, wishing him a cheery good morning when he locked his door. After that, until one of the nuns had come to fetch him for dinner, he spent a good deal of time looking from his tower window as shadows shifted across the snow-flocked trees and drifts along the banks of the lake deepened, but he wasn't really seeing the view. His mind kept returning to what Potter had said to him; children deserve to be loved, and cared for, not mistreated and abused and ignored...

Potter had mentioned once that the Muggle relatives who raised him hated him, but Draco had laughed at him. He'd reasoned that surely, everyone adored the 'golden child' as much as the wizarding world at large did. When Potter had grown quiet and withdrawn for several days following, Draco chalked it up to another of his 'sulks' when people didn't adore him. It was something Draco had been determined not to do whether they were shagging or not; he might let Potter in his pants, and in his bed, but he'd been steadfastly determined not to let him into his head, or his heart. Draco didn't do real affection; Pansy once told him that it wasn't in his nature, given who his parents were. He'd thought the assessment harsh, but even he could admit that it wasn't necessarily wrong. 

While he was in the noisy cafeteria at dinner, Potter hadn't come in even once, leaving Draco wondering where he was. He hadn't been completely alone, however. 'Scuttle Bug' had sidled over to him and climbed up onto the bench at his side.

“Hello,” he said, forcing a smile. She searched his eyes, hers entirely too knowing for someone so young. She pulled an exaggerated frown, even making the shape of it with her finger, then pressed her hand to his chest.

“Me?” he asked, and she nodded. “No, I'm not sad.” She gave him a look that said 'not much' more clearly than any words could, and he found his smile coming more easily. “You're entirely too cheeky for your own good, has anyone ever told you that?” Her own smile turned sly, and she nodded. “I'll bet.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, then held up her hand, as if to say 'wait right here', before climbing down and scooting over to another table where there was a stack of parchment and a tin can full of crayons. He watched her pull herself up into a chair and begin to draw, working studiously over something for a few minutes, before he went back to staring at his mashed potatoes, the butter congealing in them. He couldn't stop thinking about Potter; where he might be, what he was doing. If he was avoiding him for some reason...

When he felt a light tug on his arm, he turned and found Alexandria seated beside him once again. She was holding out the parchment, an expectant expression on her face, and he took it from her, turning it to look at what she'd drawn. His breath caught in his throat.

There were three figures standing side by side, and they were holding hands. They were crude, but recognizable. One had black hair and was wearing a white collar, one with yellow hair was wearing dark clothes and sporting wings, and one was dressed in pink, a tiara atop her long black curls. She pointed to the first and made symbols with her hands like she'd done with Potter earlier.

“Father Tim,” Draco guessed, his voice rough. She beamed at him, then pointed to the second figure, then at Draco's chest. “Me?” She nodded, and he looked down at the drawing, and the wings. “Oh, my darling,” he sighed, “if that's your way of telling me I'm an angel, I'm afraid I have to inform you that you are a dreadful judge of character.”

She smacked his arm smartly, and he looked over at her. She was frowning at him thunderously, and he laughed. “All right! Who am I to argue with a princess?” In response to which she pointed to the drawing of the girl in the tiara and grinned. 

He'd folded the parchment and placed it in his jacket's interior pocket, and she'd looked so proud. Now he sat on the edge of the cot in the small cell, and in the light of a small lamp that had mysteriously appeared next to the bed while he'd been at dinner, took out the drawing, smoothing it open.

The three figures looked like a sort of odd little family. One comprised of a priest and an angel and a princess, but a family none the less. He took in the wings, and shook his head wryly. But what made his eyes sting and his throat ache was that she'd drawn herself between them, holding their hands. Standing.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and index finger. Did she not understand what her condition meant, or in her own, sweet way had she decided to simply ignore it and draw if not what was, then what she wished was? And why was it that the sight of her holding one of his hands, and one of Potter's, made him suddenly yearn for just that with everything in him?

The rush of longing this caused was almost painful. He'd studiously gone so long, carefully avoiding feeling anything. It made his throat feel tight, and his chest ache, and he dropped his hand, rubbing it over the center of his chest where the hurt seemed to be located.

Having grown used to feeling nothing, this development was as unwelcome as it was disconcerting.

What the devil was happening to him?

 

~***~

 

Draco passed another miserable, cold night and was seated on the edge of his cot when the soft knock sounded on his door the next morning.

“Yes,” he said heavily, his voice as rough as he knew he looked. Two days without a shower, shave, or even a comb, and he knew he was sporting as much of a five o'clock shadow as he ever did and his hair was a lank, lackluster mess. When the door opened and Potter was standing there, looking freshly scrubbed, shaved and immaculate, Draco scowled at him.

“Rough night?” Potter asked, his lips quirking.

“Fuck you,” Draco replied. This seemed to amuse Potter immensely, and he smiled.

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to a priest?”

“You're a priest the way I'm an angel,” Draco groused. 

“Pardon?” Potter looked intrigued.

“Never mind,” Draco retorted. “Do I get to eat, or are you just here to satisfy yourself that I didn't freeze to death in the night?”

Potter studied him for a moment, then took a step back, making an exaggerated gesture with his arm. “After you.”

The dining hall was noisy and crowded once again, two things that Draco had come to expect. What he didn't expect was for Potter to tell him to take a seat almost politely, then go to get his breakfast for him. The night before Juli had fetched him from his cell and had him stand in line with the children, informing him dryly that 'no one will be waiting on you, sweet cheeks'. It startled him that Potter was willing to, especially given how they had parted company the day before. The man was nothing if not a mystery. 

Draco watched him absently as he joked with the nuns working the food line and spoke gently to several children. Again he was struck by how wonderful he looked, in contrast to how Draco knew he, himself, must appear. But it was more than that; he'd thought he'd gotten past Potter in the five years he'd been gone, but during the long, sleepless night and now, as he watched him laugh and joke, more at peace in his own skin than he'd ever appeared before, Draco knew it wasn't true. He wasn't past him; the lowering, sinking sensation in his gut told him that he doubted he ever would be. He sighed, and tore his eyes away from the handsome man Potter had become, searching for something, anything to divert his attention so he didn't sit there staring at him like a love struck calf. That would be more than his poor damaged ego could bear.

He found the something else almost instantly, and stiffened.

There was another of the blue-clad nuns and a small boy sitting at the table furthest from his. They hadn't been there the day before; he knew if they had been, he'd have noticed them. Recognized them.

The woman was young, and would have been very pretty had it not been for the dark circles under her large, tired eyes and the drawn, tight appearance of her face. She was sitting very still, staring, it appeared, at nothing. The young boy, no older than three, was sitting very close beside her, his eyes on her face and his hands curled around her arm. They both had trays in front of them, but neither of them was eating. They looked... shell-shocked. He remembered seeing that expression on the faces of some of the survivors after the battle of Hogwarts; as if they'd seen too much, been through too much to take it all in. 

There was no mistaking who they were; Desiree and Brighton Stavendish had arrived within St. Benedictine's at last, seeking sanctuary.

Potter set the tray in front of him and took a seat directly across, once again just a mug in his hand. He eyed Draco dispassionately, but Draco was quite sure Potter must have seen where he was staring.

“Don't you eat breakfast?” Draco asked crossly, tucking into his scrambled eggs.

“I eat very early,” Potter said mildly, sipping his coffee. “I've been up for hours.”

“Bully for you,” Draco groused. “So have I, but not by choice, thank you very much. Are you ever going to allow me to bathe, or must I exist in my own stench for the duration?”

“Feeling grubby?” Potter teased. “I imagine a shower would be possible.”

“How fucking magnanimous of you.” Draco bit into a rasher of bacon.

“My, you did get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, didn't you?” Potter's lips quirked around the edge of his cup.

“I don't have a bloody bed,” Draco shot back. “I have a pallet, which is hard, no pillow, and no blankets. And no heat.”

“This is a convent, Draco,” Potter said mildly. “Not the Royal Suite at the Lanesborough. And you can quit pretending that you didn't see them.”

Draco's hand paused on his way to his mouth with another piece of bacon, and he chewed and swallowed before he looked up to find Potter watching him, all amusement gone from his level stare.

“You knew they were in here,” Draco said softly. 

“There isn't anything that goes on here that I don't know about,” came the quiet response.

“And you knew that I would see them.” Draco sat back and closed his eyes. “You've decided to Obliviate me, then.”

“I haven't decided anything yet.”

Draco opened his eyes and stared at Potter, startled. The green eyes looked strangely intense.

“Except that I refuse to believe that you're a completely lost cause,” Potter went on. “That there isn't any compassion in you. Look at them, Draco. Look past what you think you know, and really look at them.”

Draco did, and once again he was struck by how very lost they looked. And how frightened. Even in the noisy cafeteria, surrounded by people they must know wouldn't hurt them, they looked terrified.

“What happened to them?” he asked.

“Do you really want to know?”

He looked back at Potter. He wasn't sure he did, actually, but he thought he might need to. He nodded.

“The boy isn't a Squib,” Potter said softly, setting his mug down, resting his elbows on the table top and linking his fingers together. “He's an empath; an extraordinarily gifted one for his age.”

Draco frowned. “All right,” he said slowly.

“His mother was eighteen when her father exchanged her for a sizable donation to his coffers in Gringott's. You've met old Stavendish, I take it?”

Draco couldn't help the look of distaste that crossed his features when he nodded. Potter nodded once in confirmation. “Didn't you find it odd that a man so disabled managed to father a child?”

Draco blinked. “I honestly didn't think about it, beyond feeling wretchedly ill at the idea.”

“Maxwell Stavendish isn't the boy's father,” Potter said flatly. “His son Milos is.”

“What? I don't...” Draco stopped. 

Potter leaned forward, his voice lowered so much that Draco had to lean forward in counterpoint, just to hear him.

“The old man knew that he wouldn't be able to father another child with her. Milos was instructed to take the necessary steps to make sure that the Stavendish line would continue.”

Draco shook his head. “That doesn't make any sense –,” he began.

“It does if you take into consideration that the man is old, and that Milos is dying.”

Draco frowned. “Dying.”

Potter nodded once. “Cancer. Of the pancreas, fairly advanced. Within two years, there wouldn't have been a Stavendish left.”

“But, if the wife knows this, then why didn't she simply wait it out? They'd be gone, she'd be rich. I don't understand.”

“Well,” Potter said, his eyes hard, “imagine, if you will, being physically restrained and raped night after night by a man who is not only horrible, but cruel. Who enjoys inflicting pain.”

Draco felt his mouth go dry. 

“Then imagine that your small child, who is an empath, knows just exactly what is being done to you.”

Draco's eyes were drawn to the boy, who was clinging to his mother's arm, his desperate eyes on her profile. “Gods,” he murmured under his breath, his hand coming up to rub over his mouth. He honestly felt as if he might vomit, and pushed the half-eaten breakfast away. “So he didn't stop then, when Brighton was born.”

“Oh, no,” Potter said. “The arrangement quite works for old Milos. He has a handy victim, one who can't fight back. With one small fly in the ointment.” Draco frowned. “The boy.”

Once again, Draco looked over at the child. He seemed to sense Draco's eyes, and he turned his head. His eyes were clear, light blue but the expression in them was old beyond his years, and Draco felt a chill.

“The boy knows,” he murmured.

“The boy knows.” Potter nodded. “And to prevent him from telling, Milos has tried to kill him. Twice. You see, Milos doesn't care if there's a Stavendish left after he dies. That's his father's obsession, not his. And he certainly feels no love for the child. At this point, he's just an unwelcome detriment to him continuing to get what he wants.” Potter paused. “The girl.”

Draco put his elbows on the table and pressed the heals of his hands into his eyes.

“That's why they ran,” Potter went on. “That's why they're here. And that's why you simply cannot tell Stavendish where to find him. Unless you're comfortable with the idea of sending that child to his death and his mother back into hell.”

Draco pressed his hands hard into his eyes, so hard he saw lights burst behind his closed lids. Finally, he dropped them heavily to the table and shook his head. “No,” he said. He looked up at Potter, who was watching him carefully. “No, Potter. I'm not comfortable with that.”

Something warm passed fleetingly through the wide eyes, so quickly that it might not have been there at all, and then the shades that Potter had learned to draw over his emotions fell back into place. But Draco had seen it, and a corresponding warmth began to replace the chill in his chest.

“You said you wanted to clean up,” Potter said, his voice gruff. Draco sighed and nodded. “Come on, then. I'll take you to shower.”

When Potter took him back up the stairs, then up another flight to the top floor, Draco looked around himself curiously. This floor looked much the same as the second, but not nearly as monastic. There were paintings on the walls, mostly portraits of priests and nuns, but the colors in them were warm. There were sconces on the wall that glowed with amber light, and the air felt warmer.

Potter led him down to the end of the hall and opened a solid-looking oak door, then stood aside to allow him access.

This room was in basically the same location as the one that Draco had been held in, but was easily four times the size. There was a dark wood four poster with a burgundy velvet counterpane, and a dark, subtly colored oriental carpet covering the gleaming flagstone floor. Two bedside tables, a tufted arm chair and ottoman and a simple desk completed the furnishings, and there was a fire burning brightly in the fireplace in the corner.

“The ensuite is through here,” Potter said, opening a connecting door. “Towels are on the racks, shampoo and soap in the shower. Sorry, they're fairly basic. I'm not much into expensive hair products.”

Draco looked wryly at the short, tousled black hair. “Do tell,” he drawled.

“Ah, there's the charming Malfoy I know,” Potter said, lips twisted wryly. “If you'll toss your clothes out I'll perform some cleaning charms on them for you.”

Draco wanted to refuse, but the idea of the mud being gone from around the hem of his trousers and his jumper not feeling so limp and lumpy after having been slept in for two nights was more than he could refuse. The condition of his socks and shoes didn't even bear thinking about. He nodded mutely, and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

As he stood beneath the hot spray and lathered his hair, he vowed never again in his life to take the pleasures of being clean for granted. He wasn't one who liked to rush his showers, and he stood beneath the spray, letting the hot water sluice down over his body, easing aches and pains and turning his fair skin pink. When he finally stepped out onto the bath mat, he found another towel, a comb, a razor and a shaving mug sitting on the counter. One brow arched as he glanced back at the glass enclosed shower, and wondered how Potter had managed to do that without him being aware of it. And if he'd bothered to take a moment to enjoy the view.

Once he was shaved and his hair was neatly combed, he secured a towel around his hips and opened the bathroom door, peering around the door frame.

Potter was seated in the chair by the fire, a book in his hands, a thoughtful frown between his brows. Potter had never been much for reading before, or at least, Draco didn't think he had. They really hadn't known one another that well, he supposed, and the thought was depressing. He saw his clothes neatly folded on the foot of the bed, pants and socks on top, and instead of interrupting Potter and asking him to hand them to him, he covered the short distance and picked them up. He turned back to the bath, wondering if Potter had even been interested enough to look, and glanced back just before he went through the door. Potter's eyes were still on the book, and Draco sighed.

It was thoroughly lowering that the man couldn't even be bothered to glance over. Perhaps a life of celibacy suited Potter better than Draco imagined, and that was a true shame, indeed. Potter had been the best fuck of his life; all of that restrained energy and intensity, focused into pinning a man to a mattress and fucking him through it. Draco would never admit it, but he'd come apart in Potter's arms. He'd always liked sex, but sex with Harry Potter had been unlike any he'd ever had, mostly because, while he'd never admitted it aloud to a living soul, he'd thought that Potter had actually cared about him. He'd certainly acted as if he did, taking his time, learning what pleased Draco, pushing him to feel more, allow more, than he ever had with anyone. No one before or since had made him feel the things Potter had. But pretty clearly if the man couldn't even be bothered to look with him standing there near naked, those days were over. The thought was lowering.

When Draco emerged fully dressed from the bath, Potter was still sitting in the same place, but he was staring pensively into the fire. He turned his head when Draco cleared his throat softly.

“Better?” he asked, maintaining his distracted expression.

“Much.” Draco, suddenly uncomfortable, slipped his hands into his pockets and looked around. “Your quarters, I'm assuming?” Potter nodded, setting his book aside and standing. Sensing that he was about to be returned to his cell, Draco spoke quickly. “If I ask you something, will you answer me?”

Potter hesitated, then straightened slowly. “If I can.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You're enjoying this whole man of mystery thing, aren't you?”

Potter crossed his arms, an amused quirk to his lips. “Is that what I'm doing?”

Draco sent him a baleful look. “You agreed to answer my questions.”

“If. I. Could.” Potter clarified pointedly. “Yes.”

“Okay, fine,” Draco said, fighting exasperation. “Why the whole – convent thing. Wouldn't it be easier to just go into complete hiding somewhere Unplottable?”

“No,” he answered, and when it looked as if he wouldn't say anymore, Draco exhaled heavily.

“Fine. Be an arse. Just take me back to my cell.”

Potter studied him for a moment, then let his arms drop, his hands propped on his hips. 

“It wouldn't be better to go somewhere completely Unplottable, because there is no such thing,” he said. “Someone,” he looked at Draco pointedly, “would always be able to find it. A compound that large would give off entirely too much magical residue, especially considering that these are kids, and damaged ones at that. Their magic can't always be controlled. Better to hide in plain sight, with minimal wards, somewhere most wizards wouldn't think to look.”

“You consider those minimal wards?” Draco asked archly. “They seemed fairly advanced to me.”

Potter shrugged, but didn't comment. 

“And the religious order, thing,” Draco pressed. “Why?”

“Again, hide in plain sight. And it serves it's purpose; some of women here actually are part of the religious order. Others are the mothers of the kids. This way, they can be camouflaged as nuns, and most people don't look twice. They expect to see them here; the order has been here for more than a hundred years.”

“How did you convince them to go along with this? To allow all of these witches and wizards to stay here? Doesn't their religion... aren't they at least suspicious of magic?”

“You think they'd believe it's somehow satanic?” Potter's smile appeared briefly. “You'd be surprised how accepting of the concept of magic people are who believe in a higher power. And they believe in what we're doing as much as we do, if not more.”

Draco thought about that. “So, you're dressed as a priest then, because...”

“I'd make a funny looking nun,” Potter quipped. When Draco didn't even smile, he did fleetingly. “If people see a man in a convent, they expect him to either be a grounds keeper, or a priest. Juli made for an imminently more believable handy man. And as 'Father Tim', I can maintain a high level of visibility within the nearby community without raising any suspicions.”

Draco nodded. “All right. I suppose that makes sense.”

“Well, thank you so much for that vote of confidence,” Potter said sardonically. “Although why you'd think I need it is beyond me.”

Draco shook his head, suddenly tired. “I don't think you need anything from me, Potter. I gave up that little delusion when you disappeared five years ago.”

For a moment Potter looked as if Draco had struck him. He stared at him, then closed his eyes and shook his head. 

“God, you're the most infuriating...” He cut himself off with an angry huff and closed the distance between them so quickly that Draco scarcely had time to back away. When Potter had him backed into the wall, he leaned even closer, until they were separated my mere inches. “I needed something from you, Draco,” he said, his jaw tight. “You just weren't prepared to give it.”

Draco stared, startled. Potter's eyes were so close, so fucking green, and each individual eye lash was as black as pitch. He felt the sizzle in the space between them, almost like the swirling, unfocused heat of a pending thunderstorm, and his heart began to race even as it lifted. Potter might have done a very good job of hiding the fact that he was still attracted to Draco, but the shortening of his breath and the flaring of his nostrils didn't lie. Draco let his eyes drop to Potter's mouth, and his lips fell open in anticipation.

The air was rent by the squeal of a loud siren, and Draco jerked, startled. Potter's eyes shot towards the windows, and Draco saw faint alarm on his tight features. 

“What is that?” Draco shouted. Potter grabbed his arm in a hard grip.

“The wards,” he answered shortly. “Come on.”

He pushed Draco out of the room and hauled him down the hall to the stairs, where they met Juli running up, his wand in his hand. 

“How many?” Potter said brusquely. 

“Just one, west perimeter.”

“Take him back to his room. I'll handle it.”

He turned and jogged down the stairs, and Juli watched him go, then pointed his wand into Draco's face. “Okay, Goldilocks,” he said mildly. “Let's go.”

“What's going on?” he asked as Juli herded him down the hallway. 

“Trespasser,” Juli answered shortly. “And that's all you need to know.”

“Are the children all right?” Draco persisted, surprised to find that he actually did care. Juli arched a brow at him.

“The kids are fine,” he said gruffly, pushing open the door when they arrived at Draco's cell. “In you go.”

Draco entered the room and turned back, about to ask something else when the door was slammed in his face. He blinked and stared at it, a feeling of helpless irritation rising in him. Crossing the room to the window, he looked out but from this side of the convent all he could see was the snowy forest and frozen lake. Sighing in exasperation, he ran his hand through his hair. He chewed his lip, concern about Alexandria and Daisy, young Thomas and Desiree and Brighton Stavendish filling his thoughts. And Potter. Headstrong, reckless Potter. If the son of a bitch wasn't careful, he'd get himself killed.

He didn't even question that the thought caused more consternation now than it would have five years before.

The building beneath him remained eerily silent for much of the day, and Draco paced his room. At noon, Sister Beatrice delivered a tray but would answer none of his questions. When she returned with another at dinner time, Draco almost resorted to begging, but still, she would tell him nothing. The hours crawled by, the sun set, and still the building remained silent. He began to wonder if almost everyone had been evacuated and he'd been left behind with just 'Sister Beatrice', whatever her real name was; something that started with a 'p', he thought. She seemed to enjoy his agitation, smiling benevolently, and he had to fight the urge to call her an insipid cow and demand to be taken to Potter. Instinctively knowing it would do him no good, he ignored the dinner tray and stood at the window, staring out into the night. There had been no bells all afternoon, he noticed with a spurt of alarm, when he'd grown accustomed to them chiming meal times. Why had they been silenced? He chewed his lower lip, his arms crossed and his fingers gripping his biceps as the usual night time chill began to seep into the small room.

It was much later, near midnight by Draco's estimation, when a soft knock sounded on the door, and he whirled, his heart leaping into his throat. He heard the key in the lock, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

Potter stood framed in the doorway, what appeared to be a blanket over his arm. 

“Potter!” Draco said, taking a step forward. He entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“You're right,” he said, glancing around. “It is bloody cold in here. Here, let me do something about that.” He tossed the blanket onto the foot of Draco's cot, then reached around and pulled his wand from the back waistband of his trousers. With a grace that seemed reserved just to Potter, he waved it in a complex series of symbols. Immediately, the chill in the room began to fade, but Draco scarcely noticed.

“That's all you've got to say to me?” he said, trying not to shout. “That I'm right about the room being cold?”

Potter returned his wand, arching a dark brow. “Was there something else you were expecting to hear?”

“What happened!” Draco burst out. “Who was the trespasser? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Potter answered mildly. “Nothing happened. We think someone simply wandered where they didn't belong.”

But Draco had known him too well at one time, and he could see by the quickly averted eyes and the carefully composed expression that he wasn't telling the truth.

“You never could lie.”

Potter's eyes narrowed. “I don't think you're exactly an expert on whether I can or not.”

Draco shook his head. “You're so deluded. You've developed a better poker face in the last five years, I'll give you that. But I always knew what you were thinking.”

Something hot flared in Potter's eyes, and he took two steps toward Draco, his hands clenched at his sides. It reminded Draco of earlier that afternoon, of the way the heat had erupted in the space between them, and he felt his pulse quicken.

“You have no fucking idea what I'm thinking,” Potter said in a low voice. “None at all. You never did.”

“That's not true,” Draco said, lifting his chin. “I always knew when you wanted me.”

Potter flinched, a muscle twitching dangerously in his jaw. “Now who's deluded.”

Draco allowed himself a breathless laugh. “I'm not deluded. You may hate it, you may wish it wasn't so, but you still want me. You want me right now.”

Potter was shoving him into the wall with his hand twisted in his jumper so quickly that Draco didn't even have time for a breath. Then Potter was there, all hard, coiled muscle pressed against him from his chest to his knees, pinning him to the stone wall, and Draco couldn't have breathed if he wanted too.

Potter leaned in even closer, square chin hard, and ran just the tip of his nose along Draco's jaw line.

“You're right,” he said, his voice raw and his breath hot against the side of Draco's face. He swallowed convulsively. “I do want you. But here's the kicker, Malfoy.” He pushed his thigh between Draco's legs and leaned his weight into his groin. “You want me even more.”

With that he brought his other hand up and caught Draco's face, turning it and angling his head roughly, and then his mouth opened over Draco's and the harsh realization that he was right simply melted away. 

Draco could feel Potter's teeth against the softness of his lips, and he opened his mouth under the rough assault. Instantly, Potter's tongue filled the space, sliding along his but the movement was not coaxing; it was commanding, controlling, and when he began to thrust into Draco's mouth in an aggressive rhythm, Draco whimpered, bringing his hands up and twisting them in Potter's hair.

He was hard so quickly that it was dizzying, and he could feel from the heavy bulge being ground into his hip that Potter was the same. He arched his back slightly, lifting his leg to ride Potter's hip with his thigh, and Potter's arm went around his waist hard, his hand dropping to clamp hard over one round cheek of Draco's arse.

“Christ, you drive me insane,” Potter snarled when their lips parted, and then he was opening his mouth on Draco's throat. Draco dropped his head back against the stone on a needy moan, and when he felt Potter's teeth against his flesh his cock jerked hard where it was trapped behind his trouser fly. He rolled his hips forward into Potter, needing friction, and the hand on his arse squeezed.

Abruptly, Potter sent his other arm around Draco's slender body, and he was lifting and turning him, carrying him backwards toward the narrow cot. His mouth was back on Draco's, and he only stopped kissing him long enough to drop him roughly onto the bed.

Draco gasped then, but in surprise because Potter was instantly on him, his hands shaking as he tore open Draco's trousers then yanked both denims and pants down his long legs. 

“Merlin, Potter,” he wheezed, his voice unsteady. “Give me a second to catch up.”

“No,” Potter said, his eyes hard as he watched himself efficiently strip Draco from the waist down. “I don't want you to catch up.” The trousers caught on Draco's shoe, and Potter merely yanked so hard that pants, trousers and shoe all came off in a rush. He reached for his own fly, and quickly unbuckled, unbuttoned and unzipped. “I want you off balance.” He pushed down his trousers and pants far enough to pull his cock free, and Draco stared at it, eyes wide as his heart slammed into his ribs. Gods, Potter had a beautiful cock, shorter than his but much thicker, arching from its nest of midnight black curls to curve toward his flat belly. “I want you just running to keep up.”

With that he crawled onto the bed and lowered himself between Draco's thighs, bringing their cocks into alignment and curling his fist around both, and Draco cried out as he felt hard, hot flesh against flesh. 

“Potter,” he moaned, reaching around to grab Potter's muscular arse. It flexed in his hands. “Oh, gods, Potter...”

Potter kissed him again, no less aggressively, all lips and teeth and tongue as his hand began to move, and Draco hips jerked up hard off of the bunk. Potter was rough and it wasn't going to take long, but Draco reached between them and caught his wrist, pulling back from the kiss.

“No,” he gasped. 

Potter stared down at him. “What?” he hissed, his voice dangerous.

“That's not what I want,” Draco clarified, his eyes on Potter's face. “I want you to fuck me.”

He hadn't done it with anyone else since Potter had disappeared; he hadn't wanted it, hadn't felt the desire for it. But Potter was different; he made Draco crave him, made him want for them to be as close as two people could be, made him want to feel him, high and hard, inside all of the empty, needy spaces.

Potter muttered a spell Draco was more than familiar with, although he was the only person Draco had ever known who could do it without his wand in his hand. He held Potter's gaze, grabbing the back of his thigh and pulling his knee toward his chest, his breath stalling in his chest. Potter rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together, and then reached between them. 

It wasn't as if Draco hadn't had anything up his arse in five years; he owned an impressive array of sex toys in assorted sizes, and he'd used them. But this was different; this was Potter, pushing into him with two fingers, and he arched and cried out.

“God, you're tight,” Potter said, sounding startled. “Has anyone...”

“Shut up,” Draco hissed. “Just do it.”

Potter caught his gaze. “I won't hurt you,” he said, frowning. “I've never wanted to hurt you.”

“Too late,” Draco said on a laugh that sounded more like a sob, and Potter bent his neck, his lips near Draco's ear. 

“Sshh,” he whispered, suddenly slowing, his fingers still inside of Draco but not moving, his hot breath stirring the hair above Draco's ear. “Relax, breathe.”

“I don't need a tutorial,” Draco snapped. Potter let out a weary chuckle. 

“God, you're a pain in the arse.”

“In point of fact,” Draco said, squirming.

“Ssh,” Potter murmured again, and then he was kissing Draco, long, slow, drugging kisses that made his toes curl and his erection, which had flagged a bit, return with enthusiasm.

Potter had always been good with his hands, and he knew just where to touch Draco inside to make him moan, his legs spreading of their own accord, his cock throbbing. Draco's prostate was sensitive, and Potter knew just how to massage it so that before long, Draco truly was ready. Potter withdrew his fingers and raised himself above Draco, taking his cock in his hand and lining himself up. As he pressed inside, he caught and held Draco's gaze.

They'd done it before, dozens of times. Yes, it had been a while, but it wasn't exactly new. There was nothing about this particular time that should have made it feel cataclysmic, as if his life would never be the same, and yet that was how it felt. Draco had to blink back tears of both relief and an odd sort of grief as Potter began to move.

It was a happy accident of nature and of their respective anatomies that the curve of Potter's cock brought the thick, spongy head into direct contact with Draco's prostate in this position, and it wasn't long before Draco's hands had curled into the black cloth still covering Potter's shoulders, and he was arching into each emphatic thrust. He could see the sheen of sweat on Potter's skin, watched as one bead of perspiration slipped down the side of his handsome face. The bed made a rough sound as it rocked against the stone floor and their combined breathing was loud. Potter bit down on his lower lip, his white teeth worrying the soft flesh, and Draco felt pressure beginning to build in his groin, felt his balls begin to draw up.

“Close,” Potter gasped.

“Yes,” Draco replied, nodding raggedly. Potter pushed up onto one hand, staring down into Draco's face, and reached to curl the fingers of his other hand around Draco's already oozing prick. The added stimulation made him cry out and arch, his long toes curling.

“Close, Draco,” Potter repeated. 

“Me, too.”

Potter tightened his grip, sped the motion, and Draco's head thrashed desperately. 

“Then come!” Potter ordered. “Come on, Draco!”

“I... I... oh gods, Harry!”

Draco felt as if his orgasm streaked through his arse to his prick and erupted from someplace near the base of his spine. He arched and gagged, fingers convulsing on Potter's broad shoulders as his release shot onto his stomach and Potter's black shirt. He was still coming when Potter's rhythm became erratic, and he slipped his arm beneath Draco's arched back and lifted him, holding him above the bed as he thrust up hard in Draco's convulsing body. Draco felt Potter shudder and heard him cry out, and Draco curled his arms around his neck and buried his face in Potter's throat.

After that, Draco wasn't aware of anything but his own drifting, weightless and yet weighted lassitude for several minutes. Potter didn't collapse on top of him but beside him, and they lay there, breathing tortured and then quieting, the magnitude of what had just happened slowly slipping into the silence between them.

Potter sat up and turned, sitting for a moment on the side of the bed before he pushed to his feet. Draco watched from the back as his shoulders shifted beneath the black fabric, the realization that Potter was righting his clothes making his heart sink.

“Potter,” he said softly, but he merely shook his dark head, tucking in his shirt and securing his trousers. “Potter,” he tried again, but Potter merely lifted his hand, silencing him without turning. 

“I have to go,” Potter muttered, and ran one hand through his thick hair. It looked for a moment as if he might turn back, but instead he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked from the room. The firm closing of the wooden door echoed in the heavy atmosphere he'd left behind.

Draco stared at the door for a long time before he reached down for the folded blanket that was twisted beneath his hips, and drew it over himself, covering his nakedness. He closed his eyes against a sudden sting he had no intention of acknowledging, curling his legs into his chest as he rolled to his side with his back to the door.

~***~

The next morning, it was Juli who came to take him to breakfast. He wasn't surprised. He was surprised, however, when instead of taking him down to the cafeteria, he escorted him out onto the sunny playground where several children already played, and reached around into his belt and withdrew a wand.

Draco stiffened; he'd passed a nearly sleepless night, and for one horrified moment he thought that the giant of a man intended to Obliviate him, right there in front of the kids. It took him a moment to realize that the wand being held out to him was his own, and that the business end was facing the huge man who held it in his hand.

Still, Draco stared at it in incomprehension.

“I don't understand,” he said haltingly.

“Welcome to the club,” Juli said, his lips twisted. “But I'm not paid to think; I'm paid to do what I'm told. He told me to give you this back and let you go, so that's what I'm doing.”

Draco frowned, his head throbbing. “He told you...”

“To let you go, yes. So here, take the bloody thing and get the hell out of here.”

Draco looked up into the irritated black eyes. “Just like that?”

“Apparently.”

Draco took the wand and slipped it into the holster strapped, through force of habit, to his forearm, but still he didn't move. 

“I don't understand,” he said finally. “I thought...”

“Well, so did I, pretty boy. I'd say if you're smart you won't look a gift horse in the mouth and you'll get out of here before he changes his mind.” Juli's expression grew even more menacing as his voice dropped. “And if anything ever comes back at us, and I have even the smallest suspicion that it originated with you? There won't be a place on the planet safe enough.”

Draco didn't flinch from the venom in his gaze, just pursed his lips, looking back toward the building that housed St. Benedictine's. 

“Where is he?” he demanded, his own brows lowering.

“I beg your pardon?” Juli asked. 

“I said, where is he? Where is the bloody coward? You can go and tell him that I'm not going anywhere until he grows the balls to come down here and tell me that to my face.”

Juli stared at him, incredulous. “Are you an idiot?” He glanced around at the children near by, who were looking up at them curiously. “And lower your voice.”

“I won't,” Draco retorted. He crossed his arms. “And I'm not moving.”

Juli's expression hardened. “I can move you, you know,” he said darkly.

“You can try,” Draco shot back. They stared at one another for a long moment, then Juli exhaled in exasperation and turned to stalk away.

“Fine, I'll tell him you want to see him.” He stopped and turned back, pointing his thick finger at Draco. “But if he says no, you're leaving, get me?” Draco pursed his lips and shifted his weight to one hip, his opinion of that written all over his face. Juli threw his hands up in exasperation, mumbling something about 'moronic fuckwits' as he pushed through the doors. So much for protecting the children's ears from the curse words.

Draco remained where he was, standing in the charmed sunlight as more of the children and their blue-clad protectors came out through the doors. He'd just noticed Desiree Stavendish come out, leading young Brighton by the hand, when he felt a tugging on his hem. He looked down to find the otherworldly blue eyes of Alexandria staring up at him, her small brow creased in a frown. 

“What is it, darling?” he asked, crouching down next to her. She put her hand on his chest then pointed away from the building toward the road. Clearly, she was asking if he was leaving. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “Not right this minute, no, but soon.”

He wasn't prepared for the stab to his heart when her eyes filled with tears and she covered her mouth with her hands. 

“Oh, don't cry, Miss Bug,” he said gently, reaching out to rub between her shoulder blades. “I won't be able to bear it if you cry; I'll end up sobbing with you, and that's scarcely manly.”

She used both hands to make the shape of a heart on her small chest, then pantomimed it breaking. Watching the desolation on her face, he was certain that his own heart was breaking as well.

And suddenly, he didn't want to leave. The idea of never seeing this precious child again was unthinkable. And the idea of leaving Potter... It hurt to breathe, and he put his hand on his chest, rubbing at the ache. 

Alexandria was speaking with her hands, the way that Draco had seen her do with Potter, and he desperately wished he understood what she was saying to him. But tears streaked down her pale cheeks, and that was poignant enough. He put his arm around her and pulled her into his chest.

He was still rubbing her small arm consolingly when several things happened at once.

The siren that he'd heard the afternoon before began to wail and then there was a sizzling crack, like a strike of lightning, followed by several sharp pops. These he recognized, and he turned where he crouched and felt the blood drain from his face when he saw several black clad figures appearing around the edges of the playground. It was like something out of his nightmares, and the Death Eaters were back, wands drawn, menacing masks in place. Only these people weren't wearing masks, and he saw Blaise along with several men he didn't recognize. But his blood truly ran cold when he saw Milos Stavendish and his hideous father amongst them.

The men began to move through the children, pushing them aside, grabbing some of the younger boys in order to peer into their faces. The children were growing frightened and trying to run away, and around the yard Draco saw wands appearing in some of the nuns hands. When the first woman was dropped with a violent stunner that lifted her from her shoes and threw her to the ground, the children began to run and scream.

Draco knew they were looking for Desiree and Brighton and he looked toward where he'd seen them. They had flattened themselves against the building wall and were staring at the fleeing children in horror. It would be only a moment before one of the men would spot them.

“Hide, darling,” Draco said urgently to the child at his feet, starting to stand. “Under the table, quickly.”

She nodded, eyes wide, and scuttled toward the nearest park bench.

Draco crouched down and ran through the hail of hexes to where Desiree had scooped Brighton up in her arms and now stood, back turned, shoulders curled, as if she were waiting for a spell to strike her in the back. Draco grabbed her and the boy and shoved them in through the doors. 

“Get down,” he shouted once he was in the hall. “Get down on the floor. Parvati!” The name came to him unbidden, and Sister Beatrice turned from where she was hustling children through the doors. 

“They're after these two,” he shouted, indicating Desiree and her son. “Take them to safety; I'll help the others.”

She didn't even question it; she grabbed the boy from his mother's arms and shouted at Desiree for her to follow and ran for the stairs.

Draco went back to the doors, pulling the frightened children and women into the relative safety of the hallway, his wand in his hand. The men were still circling the playground, but they were headed toward the building. And then he saw something that made it almost impossible to breathe.

Milos Stavendish had found Alexandria. He was holding the struggling child in his arms, and he was laughing.

“This one can't run, eh?” he said, his ugly face split in a truly terrifying smile. “Pretty little thing, though. Didn't you always want a girl, Father?” He laughed again and ran his hand down the child's gleaming curls, and Draco simply reacted.

He was through the doors, his wand pointed and the curse on his lips. Stavendish looked startled for a split second and then went down like a boulder, and Alexandria wriggled, sobbing, from under his weight, trying to get to Draco. He ran to her and scooped her up in his arms, deflecting curses and returning fire. As he turned to run back to the building, the cringing child in his arms, he saw Potter and Juli burst from the inside, wands drawn, providing covering fire.

He'd almost made it back inside when he felt pain unlike anything he'd ever experienced in his life sear across his lower back. His legs went numb and he went down, rolling to protect Alexandria as he fell.

The sound of the fight faded as sensation drained out of his arms and hands. The last thing he remembered before darkness took his vision was looking up into tear filled eyes the color of a spring sky, and wondering how it was possible for him to be so cold on such a beautiful day.

 

~***~

“I think I saw him move,” a voice, a very young voice, whispered from nearby.

Draco frowned slightly, shifting uncomfortably on the hard surface.

“He did; I see'd it! He moved!”

“I saw it,” a woman corrected gently. “And you must be quiet so that you don't disturb him.”

“But he's been asleep forever,” the child complained. “Isn't he ever going to wake up?”

Draco tried to force his eyes open and found that it was harder than he'd anticipated. It actually took him several seconds of concentrated effort, and when he did he winced against the brightness of the room.

“He's awake!!” The high pitched voice shouted, and Draco grimaced. “See, Mama? He's awake!”

“Yes, darling, I see. Please stop shouting.”

Please, Draco added to himself mentally, then blinked until the room came into focus. 

He was lying on a narrow bed in a large, very bright room, and one of the blue clad nuns was seated at his bedside, holding a small boy in her arms. It took Draco a moment, because he was feeling somewhat disoriented, but he did eventually recognize her.

“You're all right, then,” he said, his voice alarmingly weak. Desiree Stavendish smiled at him.

“Thanks to you, yes,” she murmured. “I don't believe we'd have made it without you.” Tears made her beautiful eyes very bright. “You saved me; you saved my son.”

“That's me!” The little boy said with a toothy grin, and Draco felt his lips draw up weakly.

“Is that so?”

The boy nodded, bright curls bouncing.

“The bad men came,” the child said, abruptly solemn. “But Fadder Tim says they won't be coming back, not no more.”

“Anymore,” Desiree said gently, then laid her hand on Draco's arm. He remembered enough to be relieved that he could feel it.

“Speaking of Father Tim,” she said with a soft smile, “he instructed that he was to be notified the moment that you awoke. I'll go and get him.”

“Thank you.”

Draco watched her put the boy on his feet and take his hand, leading him from the room. At the last moment, the little boy turned and waved, a bright smile on his face. Draco returned it, his lips curling up.

He looked around again, thinking that the room resembled the hospital wing at Hogwarts quite a bit. Morning sunlight was streaming in the windows, the bed he was lying on was comfortable and warm, and he remembered thinking he should wait for Potter just before he drifted off to sleep once again.

The next time he woke, the sun was lower in the sky and the room wasn't quite as bright. And there wasn't a nun seated at his side, but a priest. A priest with black hair sitting in a hard wooden chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clenched between. His head was lowered, and it looked almost as if he were praying.

“Well, I hope things aren't that dire,” Draco managed, his voice husky but audible. The dark head jerked up, and Potter looked at him, his relief so palpable the Draco felt a surge of warmth.

Potter leaned forward. “They nearly were,” he said. “Entirely too nearly for my peace of mind.”

“What did they hit me with?” Draco asked, shifting uncomfortably, taking in Potter's blood shot eyes and scruffy chin. He looked as if he hadn't slept.

“Slicing hex,” Potter answered, frowning. “Nearly severed your spinal cord. Nicked it, but our Healer was able to repair the damage. Loss of blood was the main concern; she's been forcing blood replenishing potions down your throat for two days.” Draco vaguely remembered the nasty stuff, and grimaced. “She said if you didn't respond soon, she was going to suggest transfer to St. Mungo's.”

“Well, fortunately, I don't think that will be necessary,” Draco murmured, trying to pull his arms up, thinking to sit. 

“No,” Potter said quickly, laying his hand in the middle of his chest. “Don't push it just yet. You're still healing.” He didn't remove his hand, just left it, warm, in the middle of his chest, and Draco subsided.

“I saw Desiree and Brighton,” he said. “They were here when I woke up the first time.” A sudden thought occurred to him, and he clutched at Potter's hand. “Alexandria --”

“She's fine,” Potter assured him. “You didn't fall on her. She's been very worried about you.” He smiled tiredly. “She'll be relieved to know that you're awake. Everyone will be. You were quite the hero out there.”

Draco ignored the compliment. “What happened?” he asked instead. “How did they find you? How did they get through the wards?”

Potter looked down at the floor, but he didn't remove his hand from Draco's. “At first, there was some suspicion that you might have directed them here.”

Draco gasped, his heart jumping into his throat and his eyes going wide. Once again he struggled to sit. “I didn't, Harry. I swear; I would never endanger these children, not after everything I've seen...”

Harry pressed his free hand against Draco's shoulder and his eyes lifted to his face. He squeezed Draco's hand. “I know,” he said firmly. “I always knew. That's why I was going to let you go without Obliviation; I saw your reaction to the kid's stories, saw the moment you understood what Desiree and Brighton had been through. And once we questioned Zabini under Veritaserum, everyone else knew you had nothing to do with it, too.”

“You didn't tell me how they found you,” Draco persisted, his heart still racing but beginning to slow.

“You were carrying a mobile when you first arrived,” Harry said. “Apparently your business partner didn't particularly trust you, and had placed a magical trace inside of it. He knew you'd be on to him if he traced you directly, so he did it through the phone. Paid someone a small fortune in order to make it subtle enough that you wouldn't notice the magic, but powerful enough that he could follow the signal with a spell.” Potter smirked. “He was actually very proud of himself. Apparently getting any sort of unusual magic past you is something of a trick.”

Draco's mouth dropped open in outrage. “Why that miserable shit,” he snapped. “Where is he?”

Harry didn't smile, but his eyes looked amused. “Probably in St. Mungo's, trying to figure out why he can't remember the last two months of his life.”

Draco snorted. “Well, nice to know Juli got to Obliviate someone,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I'm sure he was so pleased.” The amusement in Potter's eyes ripened.

“He was, actually.”

“How did they get through your wards?” Draco persisted. “I encountered those wards, and they were some of the strongest I'd ever come up against.”

“They were actually stronger,” Harry said, looking sheepish. “I let you through.”

Draco's eyes widened. “You what?”

A tinge of red stained Harry's cheeks. “I knew you were coming. Hermione actually knew that you were in her office, spying on her, and fed you the information.”

Draco stared at him, dumbstruck. “You sneaky son-of-a-bitch,” he said, anger flaring. “What if that had completely backfired on you, and I was still the self-centered bastard I'd always been? You risked what you have, here. You risked these children.”

Harry's eyes when he looked at him were warm. “I didn't believe it was a risk,” he said softly.

“You bloody fool. What about the Stavendish's?” Draco insisted, still angry. “They won't just go away, you know.”

Harry looked at him, his eyes steely. “They already have. They won't be bothering anyone, ever again.”

“Oh,” Draco said, some of his ire fading. Draco studied his set face, and felt relief flow through him. “Good,” he said emphatically, and Harry nodded. “But you still haven't explained how they got through the wards.”

“That was an upper level Auror inside the DMLE,” Harry replied, his eyes so hard that Draco was glad the anger wasn't directed at him. “He'd been on my team when some of the wards were developed, and knew how to get around them. Do you remember the day before the raid, when the alarms went off?” When he'd been in Potter's quarters. Draco nodded. “Apparently that was him, testing the perimeter. He also, unfortunately, has a bit of a gambling problem, something the Stavendish's were able to capitalize on. He's looking at an early retirement and a long stint in Azkaban for divulging confidential department information.”

Draco shook his head, astounded by how far the old man and his son's tentacles had reached.

“They were everywhere,” he mused. He then recalled his own involvement, and closed his eyes. “It's both amazing and frightening what you can get people to do if wave enough money in their face. I should know.”

“Draco,” Harry said firmly. “You saved Desiree and Brighton and countless others. You ran out against ridiculous odds to save Alexandria. No one paid you to do any of that; that was you, your instincts, your compassion. You knew what was right, and you did it. I was right to trust you.”

Draco blinked, his eyes beginning to sting. “But you were trying to make me leave,” he murmured, hating how weak, how emotional he suddenly sounded, but unable to help it.

“That wasn't because I didn't trust you with the safety of the children,” Harry said, looking down at their joined hands, his expression solemn. “That was because I didn't trust in your feelings for me.”

Draco inhaled, then exhaled in a rush. “Harry –.” he sighed. 

“No, let me say this, because I may never have the courage, or be affected with the complete insanity, to do it again.” He took a deep breath, his eyes steady. “Draco, I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for almost six years.”

“But, you left,” Draco said, once again feeling his eyes fill. “You left me.”

“Because you told me that you didn't love me.”

“That wasn't,” Draco began, but then the words he'd tossed in Harry's face came back to him. It's not as if I love you... He stopped, pained. “I did say it,” he admitted, squeezing Harry's hand. “But I didn't mean it. You frightened me, Potter. Allowing myself to care for you that much; it was a risk I was afraid to take.”

Harry ran his thumb over the back of Draco's hand, and Draco felt a chill of reaction snake up his arm even as his throat ached with holding back tears of both weakness and regret. 

“I know that, now,” Harry said. “But at the time I was... apparently abysmally stupid.”

Draco laughed around the lump in his throat. “At last! Something we can agree on.”

Harry chuckled and shook his head. He then leaned forward, resting his chin on their joined hands. 

“I have also been rather forcefully informed by a certain blue-eyed sneak thief that if I ever try to make you leave again, she will make me very, very sorry.” He shrugged sheepishly. “She was really quite cross with me.”

“She may very well be my favorite person in the world at this moment,” Draco said wryly, then stroked Harry's scruffy chin with his thumb.

Harry's eyes turned serious as he studied him. “Do you want to stay?”

Draco nodded. “Very much. I'm not sure how much I have to offer...”

Harry scoffed. “With your potions background and understanding of magical theory? I'm sure we can find something for you do to.” Draco felt warmed by the praise. “But you need to understand what you'll be giving up,” Harry persisted. “The only way to guarantee the safety of the people who come to us for help is to remove ourselves from our former lives. If you stay here, then for all practical purposes Draco Malfoy ceases to exist. You'll have to cut off all ties with home, including your parents. Can you do that?”

Draco thought about it. He would always love his mother, but she'd made her choice. And he'd been so miserable, so dead inside, for so long. He didn't want to go back to feeling nothing; not ever again. 

“The only thing that I couldn't bear to give up,” he whispered, “is you.”

Harry caught his breath, then closed his eyes and leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Draco's.

“Right answer,” he murmured, and then kissed him.

Harry lifted his hand and caressed Draco's hair, deepened the kiss by gentle degrees, and Draco allowed himself to relax into it. Joy fluttered just under his ribcage, and he lifted his arm around Harry's neck. When their lips separated, Draco pressed his face into the warm strength of Harry's neck.

“So, do I get to wear priest clothes?” he asked. Harry chuckled, his hands moving over Draco's chest, as if he couldn't seem to get enough of simply touching him.

“If you like.”

“I think I would.” He pressed a kiss to the skin of Harry's throat, just above his collar. “They're very sexy,” he whispered. “I think you'll find you agree when you see me in them. I'll make a very fetching priest.”

“I've absolutely no doubt.” Harry sounded as if he were smiling, and Draco snuggled in closer, closing his eyes, inhaling the scents of sweat and soap and shampoo and Harry.

And for the first time in perhaps the whole of his life, he knew with absolute certainty that he was precisely where he was supposed to be.

Home at last.

~*fin*~


End file.
